Just a Story In The End
by Shaddic
Summary: A genius mind like Sherlock's must come with an equally genius imagination. Sherlock had many incredible adventures when he was just a little boy, but they all took place inside his head. Or did they? A look at what Sherlock's childhood might have been like, and how he came to be the consulting detective we all know and love, with a timey-wimey twist. Kid!Wholock
1. Eye Spy

_**Author's Note: **__So, this is my first Sherlock story. I never planned to write a Sherlock story, because you walk a thin line when writing for characters like him and I was afraid I would get his character wrong. I had another story in mind that I had planned to do over the summer, but this idea popped into my head and I loved it. __It's far better than the other one, and so I just had to do it, instead. __It's also my first crossover fic, btw. For the first few chapters it's just Sherlock, but the Doctor will come in later. It's a look at what __Sherlock's childhood might have been like, but with a timey-wimey twist._

_If you would, leave a review and let me know what you think. Constructive criticism is always welcome, and has really helped me in the past. _

_Hope you enjoy :)  
_

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**Part 1**

Sherlock Holmes was just an ordinary little boy.

At seven years old, he did everything you would expect a boy his age to do. His room was generally kept neat and tidy, everything had its place and nothing was left unsorted.

Instead of watching Saturday morning cartoons or going to the arcade, he spent most of his free time at the library absorbing every scrap of knowledge he could get his hands on. He'd started in the children's section, but he'd poured through each and everyone within four days and had since moved on to the adult section, which suited him much better.

He didn't eat very much, even on the rare occasions he was offered sweets. His mind worked better without the distraction of digestion. He didn't sleep very much, either.

He saw things, noticed things that no one else saw. He would point out things that had been missed or overlooked, which shocked and repelled those around him. It was like they were looking through a filter, seeing only half the world, while he was constantly bombarded by overwhelming sensations of sights, smells, and sounds that he had no control over. It was stressful, troublesome, and even frightening most of the time, but there were times when it was so brilliant and wonderful.

He also liked to examine and dissect the dead animals that he found sometimes. The other children would run away, some would scream or cry, but Sherlock was drawn to them, even though his mother strictly forbade him from touching any carcasses he found. He didn't see what the big deal was; animals and humans died all the time, there was no stopping it. And what further harm could he do them now? He might as well study and learn from them. Besides, it wasn't like he was killing them himself. Not that he was entirely opposed to the idea.

He was also very good at solving mysteries and puzzles. It was maddening when he didn't have anything to stimulate or distract his mind. Most children tried to avoid unnecessary thinking, but he craved mental challenges like oxygen.

Actually, Sherlock Holmes wasn't ordinary at all.

On this particular morning, little Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed looking out the one window in his bedroom.

His room was a bit bigger than the average child's room; in fact you probably couldn't tell it was supposed to be a child's room at first glance. There was a dresser on one side and a large bookcase on the other. Resting on the dresser was a large model of a ship that Sherlock had built all by himself, and he was very proud of it.

The walls were painted a stark, uninteresting white, and the floor was hardwood. There was a small bed with an ocean blue blanket and matching pillow, and by it was a closet where his coat and shoes were kept.

The only giveaway that a child lived there was the teddy bear that usually laid on the pillow, waiting for his boy to return and talk about his day. But at that moment, the bear was clutched tightly in Sherlock's arms as he let his thoughts wander and do as they pleased. His eyes were looking out the window, but he wasn't seeing anything outside.

"Sherlock!" he heard a voice call. A fist was pounding on the door, but Sherlock hardly noticed. "Come on down to breakfast, you're going to be late for school!"

Sherlock pretended not to hear and stayed where he was. He was not looking forward to school. The beating on the door lasted another minute or two, then ended with a loud and exasperated sigh. This was followed by the scratching sound of the lock on his door being picked. Still, Sherlock couldn't be bothered to care.

The door flew open, and there stood Mycroft, Sherlock's elder brother by eight years.

Mycroft was about as ordinary as Sherlock was, although he kept it hidden better than his little brother ever did. He mostly kept his deductions to himself, and only used his talent when it was beneficial to him. Unlike Sherlock, he preferred to stay out of the spotlight and work behind the scenes; it was much more effective.

"Mummy's been calling you for ages, didn't you hear? Get downstairs right now before you get a good flogging."

Mycroft also had a habit of "playing mother" as Sherlock called it. He didn't enjoy the job one bit, but who else was going to look out for him? Their mother meant well, but all she did to raise her sons was lay down more and more rules, and the more rules there were, the more Sherlock went out of his way to break them.

Mycroft didn't fully understand his little brother. But he came closer than anyone else.

Grudgingly, Sherlock obeyed, though he did stick his tongue out at his brother as he passed, who only rolled his eyes in response.

The Holmes manor was a true sight to behold. The house wasn't ancient, but had been passed down through several generations. The house itself wasn't large, at least not compared to others like it, but it was large enough that it required at least three maids; none of whom were allowed to speak to the two boys. The house was elegant and magnificent in every way, yet it had a hollow, empty feeling about it. It seemed it would be better suited to ghosts than to living beings, or at least, that's what Sherlock thought of it.

The two boys went down the staircase; Sherlock took them two at a time and made a loud racket, while Mycroft took his time so as to not make any noise. When they reached the bottom, they were met by their stern, uncompromising mother.

"There you are, get to the table and eat something. The bus will be here any moment to pick you up and I won't have you missing it again."

"Yes Mummy," they both replied in unison, even though she'd only been talking to Sherlock.

They all went into the dining room, where one of the maids was finishing setting the table. Breakfast consisted of scrambled eggs, bacon, and buttered toast. They each took their place, with Sherlock and Mycroft sitting across from each other and their mother at the head.

Sherlock was annoyed by the feeling of the shirt he was wearing. It wasn't that it was uncomfortable, but unlike most people, his senses were always on high alert and so sensations were never dulled. Most people would stop feeling the clothes on their body and could even forget they were wearing any, but never Sherlock. The feeling of the chair against his back was also vying for his attention. Every single detail seemed to clamor for his attention whether he wanted it or not, ranging from the amount of light-bulbs in the chandelier, to each individual smell for breakfast, to the color of everyone's socks. It was all very frustrating, and Sherlock was always trying to find ways of distracting his brain. He settled on counting each petal of each flower on the dining room wallpaper. It worked until his mother began speaking.

"Now Mycroft, remember that you have your fencing lesson today at 4:30. Sherlock, your violin lesson will be right after school, so go straight there and don't dilly-dally."

"I'm already better at it than my teacher. I don't see why I should have to go," muttered Sherlock.

His mother gave him a stern look. "While you are quite talented dear, you are hardly good enough to quit your lessons."

"Can't I take fencing instead? Like Mycroft."

"When you're older. You're too young for it now."

"You say that about everything."

Sherlock didn't cower when his mother stood up and slammed her hands on the table, though he did a bit on the inside. "You will not speak back to me again, young man. Bad things happen to bad boys who don't listen to their mother."

"Yes Mummy," said Sherlock. He kept his head down, but curled his fists underneath the table.

"And sit up straight, don't slouch. I won't have a hunchback for a son."

"Yes Mummy," Sherlock repeated as he straightened his spine.

She opened her mouth to speak again, but Sherlock knew what she was going to say and beat her to it. He stabbed his eggs with his fork and took a small bite. He let her win this tiny battle, but he'd never let her win the war. While Mycroft was busy shoveling food into his mouth, she'd be lucky if he ate anything more than that bite of egg for the next three days.

She closed her mouth and sat back in her chair, having calmed down. Without looking, he heard Mycroft release a sigh of relief. He had learned long ago that it was impossible to win an argument with his mother and so it annoyed him when Sherlock tried, which was often. Normally Sherlock would not have conceded so easily and they'd be shouting at each other. But Sherlock wasn't in the mood for that today, and so Mycroft was grateful for the resulting peace, even if it was just the eye of the storm.

Just then, their father descended the stairs, a briefcase in one hand and a phone in the other against his ear. As strict and overbearing as their mother was, their father was the complete opposite. Even though he was married with two children, his one true love was his work. He worked in the British government and was hardly ever home; in fact, it was a surprise to see him there in the dining room that morning at all.

"Will you be eating with us this morning?" asked his mother without looking at him.

"Afraid I can't, I've got a lot of work to do."

"Father, will you be home later?" asked Sherlock, clinging to the hope that maybe he might get some time with his father.

His father ended the call and turned to look at his younger son. A bit impatiently, he asked, "Why? Is there a meeting at school I wasn't told about?"

"No, no, nothing like that," replied Sherlock, a bit sheepishly.

"Then why would I need to be here?"

Sherlock racked his brain for an answer. What did fathers and sons normally do? He'd seen fathers and sons play football and things like that, but that didn't seem very interesting for either of them. He'd never had his father all to himself before, not even when they went on holiday, so he was drawing a blank. In the end he said sheepishly, "So that we could do something together?"

His father assumed a look of pity, as if he were thinking, _Is this kid serious? Even if I did have free time, it wouldn't be wasted on a child. I brought this kid into existence, what more does he want from me?_

"Sorry son, but I can't. I've got too much work to do. You understand, right?"

"Yeah, I guess," said Sherlock, making sure to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

Angry and upset, Sherlock looked at both of his parents and deduced the hell out of them. His mother wore a long white dress, simple but elegant. She spent most of her time gossiping with her friends, though he knew by the faces she made whenever she spoke of them that she despised every single one.

But no, she wasn't going there today, because her wedding ring was missing from her finger. Not only that, but she was wearing her more expensive perfume, the kind that she wouldn't waste just to impress her friends. Her salt and pepper hair was tied up in a loose bun; normally she'd have it in a tight bun to keep it from coming down in the middle of the day, but she had plans for it to come down later. She would leave that morning with impeccable nails, but would return with black soot underneath them. Her perfume wouldn't be able to completely conceal the smell of black smoke. His conclusion: she was going to visit her lover, the handsome blacksmith who lived a few blocks away.

His father carried a cane and walked with a slight limp in his right leg from an old war wound. Sherlock knew it was faked to gain discharge, because he'd occasionally catch him limping with the wrong leg. His light hair was slicked down, and his nails were also polished. He'd used a tad too much cologne, covering up the usual smell of tobacco. Even though it was not unusual for his father to groom himself this way, he could tell just by his shoes that he would be seeing someone extra special, perhaps the queen herself. His father didn't seem to notice that his wife wasn't wearing her ring, or perhaps he didn't care. Sherlock was tempted to suspect him of infidelity, as well, except for the fact that his father would rather kiss the ground the queen stepped on than kiss even the loveliest of ladies.

If they weren't so keen on keeping up appearances, his parents probably would have been divorced before they cut the wedding cake. Sherlock always saw how much they got on each other's nerves, but stayed together purely out of convenience and to maintain their precious social image. They always made sure to stay out of each other's way, and so while he and Mycroft were being henpecked to death about every tiny mistake they made by their mother, their father couldn't care less what went on in their lives, as long as they didn't end up in jail or doing something to tarnish the family name. Even then he probably wouldn't care.

Sherlock often wondered where he'd gotten his ability to see these things. His father wouldn't notice the house burning down around him, while his mother only noticed things like dirt and bad posture. He wondered if he'd inherited it from one of his ancestors. Or maybe he was the only one with the ability. Maybe he really was an alien, like his classmates believed. Then again, he knew for a fact that Mycroft had it too, even if he did try to hide it, so at least he wasn't the only alien around here.

"I think I just heard the bus arrive, you had better run along, Sherlock," said Mother.

"I don't want to ride the bus," argued Sherlock. "I'm not going."

"Nonsense, you will ride the bus," she replied, more forcefully. "Mycroft dear, walk Sherlock to the bus stop and make sure he gets on. And apologize to the driver ahead of time for any disturbances he may cause."

"Yes, Mummy," said Mycroft with a heavy sigh. He shot Sherlock an annoyed look and said, "Well come on then. Let's go, Sherlock."

Sherlock hopped down from his chair and ran up to his room to grab his backpack and violin case. He ran back downstairs and pulled on his shoes, because he wasn't allowed to wear them in the house. He then followed his older brother out the door.

Before they stepped outside, Mycroft grabbed an umbrella in case of rain. The sky was grey and a chilly breeze blew through their hair. All morning it had been raining off and on, as though the clouds couldn't make up their minds.

The manor was surrounded by red roses. It was springtime, but this year they'd hardly gotten any sunshine. The flower's colors were dimmed by the lack of sunlight.

The two boys walked down the path and down to the wrought iron gate. Mycroft opened it and motioned for Sherlock to go through and get on the bus, but he had other plans.

Sherlock dropped to his knees and covered his face with his hands. He began to wail and cry, and as the driver opened the door to the bus, he said, "Please don't hit me again, Mycroft! I swear I'll be good, honest!"

Mycroft whipped his head around to face him, his expression changing from surprise, to realization, to utter mortification, and to anger, all in the span of a few seconds.

"What's going on here?" demanded the driver.

"I can't tell you, or he'll hurt me again," sobbed Sherlock as tears rolled down his face. "If you decide to punish me, please don't use the belt. Or make me slam the oven door on my ears again."

"What!?" shouted the driver.

"He's trying to kidnap me! I'm so scared, call 999! Don't let him hurt me!"

"Do I need to call your parents?"

"No, no! You've got it all wrong!" said Mycroft as he grabbed Sherlock by the wrist and forced a smile. "Our mum asked me to walk him to the bus, that's all. I would never lay a hand on my dear, sweet little brother. He's such a cutie, isn't he?" The last words were spoken with such an undercurrent of rage that for a moment, Sherlock almost feared for his life.

The driver didn't look convinced. Mycroft then said through gritted teeth, his face a mix of red and purple with rage and embarrassment, "I'll just walk him to school myself, shall I?"

The driver shot him a warning glare, then closed the door and drove off. The tears ceased the instant the bus was gone. Mycroft turned on Sherlock, the tight smile on his face transforming into a terrifying glower.

"If you kill me, the neighbors will see and tattle on you," warned Sherlock with a smirk.

"If there were no witnesses, I'd end you here and now in unspeakable ways," said Mycroft irritably, his face still glowing red from embarrassment. "Come on then, Mummy will turn us into shoes if I don't get you to school on time, and we're already going to be late as it is. What was the point of all that, exactly?"

"I was hoping the driver would call the police and have you arrested. I'm very disappointed that he didn't do anything. If I'd been telling the truth, he'd have just left me to be abused, or even murdered."

"The man knows you well enough to not take you too seriously."

Sherlock held back the retort he'd been about to give. He was glad Mycroft had given in and was walking him to school. Riding the bus was an absolute nightmare. All the loud noises, all the random information, it was like each individual sensation was a needle poking at his brain. Not to mention, he would have to sit on the floor, because no one ever made room for him, and he didn't want to spend the trip with nothing to look at but his fellow student's feet.

Sherlock knew he was stealing valuable time from Mycroft by making him do this. His older brother attended a boarding school a few hours away, but due to a recent fire, he and the other students had been sent home for a few weeks. A few weeks of freedom, and here he was spending it on his little brother.

Then again, as far as Sherlock could tell, Mycroft didn't have a life. He spent a lot of time keeping an eye on Sherlock, and when he wasn't doing that he was busy pandering to those around him, no doubt preparing for his future career. He was shaping up to be just like their father, he thought. So from that perspective, he wasn't really depriving him of anything.

Even though he would never admit it, he enjoyed walking to school with Mycroft. It would give them a chance to play one of Sherlock's favorite games.

"Let's play Eye-Spy," he said eagerly.

"No. Not after what you did to me back there. I'm still battling the urge to strangle you with my bare hands."

"All right fine, I apologize. It won't happen again. Maybe. Just play with me already. Or are you afraid of losing?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but a small, genuine smile faintly touched his lips. "I spy with my little eye… a blind person."

Sherlock immediately began scanning the surrounding area with his eyes. He counted twelve people in the near vicinity. He looked first for the obvious signs, such as a seeing-eye dog, or a person wearing sunglasses or using a cane. He didn't see any of these things, so he looked harder. He examined each person closely, until he noticed two men at a hot dog stand. The customer was holding onto the cart, and his head was lowered slightly more than normal. He was talking to the vendor, but he wasn't making any eye contact.

"That guy at the hot dog stand," announced Sherlock proudly. "He's keeping his hand on the stand to keep his bearings, and he's not looking at the vendor while they talk."

"Very good," said Mycroft as they continued on.

"But how did he make it to the stand without a cane or dog to guide him?"

"If you'd been paying attention, you would have noticed that his wife had just gone into the store behind the stand. She was acting as his guide, but she needed to make a quick run into the shop and left her husband by the stand. She might have been his girlfriend, but the glint of gold on her finger suggests that they are married."

"Wow," said Sherlock. "Will I ever be that good?"

"Perhaps, if you work on it, you might become almost as good as me someday."

"Nope, I won't be as good as you are, not ever. I'm going to be loads better," declared Sherlock. "Someday, I'm going to be a detective."

"I thought you wanted to be a pirate."

"I'll be a mystery-solving pirate. I'll sail the seven seas on my ship and solve people's mysteries. And then steal all their gold."

"Well good luck with that," said Mycroft sarcastically.

They continued their game until they reached the school. Mycroft was winning, but Sherlock had him stumped on the last one.

"I give up. Which one was about to be dumped by his girlfriend?"

"That guy in the red sweater who passed by us," said Sherlock proudly. "He was leaving the flower shop, and he smelled like the flowers so he must have been in there for some time. He was trying to pick out a suitable bouquet but gave up. She must be very high maintenance and they had a fight, and he was trying to make it up to her but gave up because she won't accept any peace offerings. Also, his clothes are new but messy and wrinkled. He bought a new wardrobe to try to impress her, but he's not very good at grooming himself. His nails were bitten down to the nub, which means that he knows he's getting dumped and is anxious about it. Personally, if I were him, I'd be dancing with joy."

Mycroft stared down at Sherlock, not knowing what to say. As good as he was at making deductions, he hadn't been that good at his age. Sherlock was already getting better than him at deducing things, and he wasn't sure if that was a good thing, or a bad thing.

"Listen Sherlock. I need to tell you something. Do you know why I play this game with you? It's not for fun, it's for-"

"Save it, Mycroft. I just heard the bell ring, I'm going to be late for class," said Sherlock as he turned and ran for the front door of the school.

"All right then," sighed Mycroft. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"

He turned and headed back towards the house, twirling the umbrella as he did. He hoped that Sherlock could make it through the day without getting into trouble, but since it was Sherlock, the problem wasn't him getting into trouble. The problem was how much trouble.


	2. The Burned Bear

Sherlock walked down the long halls of the elementary school until he found the door to his class. The room was painted in every color of the rainbow, with pictures of smiling children and posters with the alphabet to help them learn their letters. There were no words to describe how much it annoyed him. He walked in just as the teacher called his name in roll call.

"Here," he mumbled as he took his seat. The teacher, Mrs. Blackburn was her name, narrowed her eyes at him but marked him down as present and on-time. She couldn't remember the last time he'd come in before roll call, and even though children his age weren't really punished for tardiness, she knew he'd be getting into a lot of trouble later on if he kept this poor habit.

Mrs. Blackburn finished taking roll and then stood up. She was wearing a long denim skirt and a white blouse, and her thin, straw-colored hair was pulled up in a ponytail. Her eyes were tinged red, and she was resisting the urge to put a hand to her forehead. Sherlock deduced she was recovering from a hangover.

"For our first activity class, you'll need to break up into pairs. Everyone find a partner."

Sherlock internally groaned. He always dreaded group projects. For one thing, he could accomplish any task thrown at him all by himself long before anyone else and do it with zero flaws or errors, thank you very much. For another, no one ever wanted to be his partner. The only thing that prevented him from ending up alone was the fact that the class had an even number of students.

Everyone stood up and grabbed their best friend before they were snatched away. Sherlock quickly scanned the crowd, looking for the most likely person who would be okay with being his partner.

He started by asking Billy Thompson, the best in the class when it came to athletics. Not a good place to start, but he was in a risky mood.

"Hello Billy. Would you like to be my partner?"

"Gross. Get away from me, freak."

This response was not unexpected. Determined to not let this get him down, he moved on to the next likely person. Susie Monroe, who he'd deduced from her incredibly shiny teeth that one of her parents was a dentist.

"Hi Susie. Would you like to partner up with me?"

"I'm partnering with one of my friends. Go bother someone else."

Sherlock sighed and left her alone. His eyes landed on Olivia Whitlocke next. She was the prettiest and most popular girl in their class. He'd fancied her from the moment he'd first saw her on the first day of school. He'd never gotten the nerve to speak to her, and she'd never wasted any time to so much as look at him. He wanted so badly to ask her to be his partner, but he wouldn't dare. It was one thing to be rejected and called a freak by the monkeys he called classmates, he didn't need to hear it from her, too.

After three more attempts, finally Sherlock had a bit of success. A boy named Arnold took him up on his offer and they sat down at a table together. Arnold had asthma, wore glasses, and his left leg was crippled, so he had to walk with crutches. While Sherlock was at the bottom of the food chain in school, Arnold was just barely above him on the social ladder, and so he'd had no choice but to go with him.

"Does everyone have a partner? Good. Now, I want one person from each team to pick a book from the shelf, and you'll read it with your partner."

Sherlock volunteered to get the book so that Arnold wouldn't have to get up. He was the first to the bookcase, but he was shoved out of the way by Billy. He had to wait until everyone else had chosen before he could try again. He searched through the books, looking for the biggest, most difficult book he could find, but since they were only in the first grade, there was nothing available that was even remotely challenging. So he eventually settled on a shortened, dumbed-down version of Robin Hood.

"Why'd you get such a hard one?" asked Arnold when he presented it to him. "That has to be for big kids."

Sherlock had forgotten that this book might be too hard for poor, average Arnold. "Compared to the books I normally read, this is a baby book."

Arnold opened it up and tried to read the words, but struggled with nearly every single one. Sherlock put his chin in his hands, mentally correcting every word he pronounced wrong because there were too many to do out loud. He wondered if it was possible to literally die of boredom. If it was, they'd find his body in this room.

When Arnold got completely stuck on the word "adventure" Sherlock offered to take over. Arnold eagerly agreed. Sherlock took the book in his hands, and immediately began reciting the words like an adult. He read so fast that Arnold couldn't keep up with what he was saying, and by the time he was finished, which was under two minutes, he had no idea what the story was even about.

"How did you do that?" asked Arnold as Sherlock closed the book.

"It was elementary. How could you seriously _not_ do it?"

Arnold's cheeks flushed in embarrassment, and he didn't speak another word to Sherlock the entire time. It occurred to him that that might have been a rude thing to say. Oh well, it was the truth, at any rate.

Sherlock knew his IQ was off the charts. He prided himself in being smarter than everyone he knew. His brain was a true rarity in a world of imbeciles. And yet, he couldn't help but wonder, if he was so smart, why couldn't he make friends? Shouldn't the others like him, admire him for his abilities? It was no secret that Billy had true talent when it came to sports, and people liked him for it. They admired him because he was better than them. Why didn't it work for him, then? Why was it that everyone was so repelled by the mere sight of him? It just wasn't fair.

After everyone had finished their books, they began the day's lesson, during which Sherlock corrected the teacher so many times that she sent him to the corner until the lunch bell rang. The thing that irked her about it most, was that Sherlock was probably right.

When it was time for lunch, Sherlock stood in the lunch line and took a tray of food, if only to keep the lunch ladies from telling the teacher, who would call his mother, who would give him another boring lecture about the consequences of not eating enough.

He carried his tray past the tables, and every time he glanced at any of his fellow students, they would glare at him, silently warning him to stay away. Every table had at least two people, so in the end he was forced to sit at one end of a table, while the others moved to the other end, as far away from him as possible.

Sherlock spent most of lunchtime mixing his food together until none of it was recognizable. He then dumped it in the rubbish bin and left the cafeteria early.

Since he still had a bit of time before he had to go back to class, he thought he'd run by the library and pick out a book to read, one that wouldn't make his brain cells kill themselves out of boredom. Mrs. Blackburn hated it when he did that and would take the book away, and so he would have to hide it behind one of the baby books she insisted they all read.

The rest of the school day passed without event. Arnold didn't speak to Sherlock anymore, but he didn't mind.

After school, Sherlock went to see his violin teacher. Her name was Miss Wong, and although she had a Chinese name, she was actually from America, and she spoke with a southern twang.

"Hey Sherlock," she greeted him when he walked through the door.

"Hello, Miss Wong."

"How's your day been?"

"Stupendous. Can we just get the lesson over with?"

Miss Wong didn't bother him with any more small talk and instead pulled out a very complicated piece with three pages of sheet music. None of her other students his age could play anything that was more than two lines of music, but Sherlock was special, she could tell.

Sherlock rosined his bow and began playing the piece. He was having some difficulty with it, but the fact he could play it at all spoke volumes about his talent.

It was obvious to her that she had a prodigy on her hands. She wanted to get to know this child, to be his friend, but she didn't know how to go about it. He was always very reserved, unless he was showing off. Whenever she would try to speak to him he would brush her off. If only she could find the right words to speak, maybe he would open up to her.

By the time their hour was up, Sherlock could play the first page and a half of the song. Miss Wong sent the music home with him and wished him a good week, to which he responded with a curt nod.

He hailed a cab for the rest of the ride home. He would have preferred to walk, but he was told he was too young and it would be dangerous. For now he would obey, but his birthday was coming very soon, and he'd already made up his mind that eight would be plenty old enough for him to take care of himself.

Once he arrived home, he kicked off his shoes at the door and ran upstairs to his room. He tossed his backpack in a corner and placed his violin case gently by his bed. He had a lot of homework that was due soon, but he never bothered with any of it. He always passed his exams with flying colors, anyway. He was at the top of his class in every subject, which only made everyone else dislike him even more.

He spent the rest of the afternoon working on his new piece. Over the next few hours, he could play the entire song, but there was one part he kept getting stuck on. Every time he played the song, without fail he would trip up, and it was driving him mental. More than once he seriously considered throwing the instrument out the window, but he knew that if he did his parents wouldn't replace it to punish him, and he really did love making music. So he kept practicing, determined to get it right even if he had to spend the rest of his life on it, which he was fine with doing.

At one point, he heard a knock on the door and a maid say, "Sherlock, dinner is ready."

Sherlock didn't respond, so she continued on by saying, "Your mother requests that you come join them at the table."

"Request" was a nicer way of saying, "command." Sherlock continued to ignore her.

Five minutes passed. Then his mother came in without knocking.

"Sherlock Holmes, what is the meaning of this? I asked you to come to dinner."

"I'm not hungry."

"That's what you always say. You're not a plant, you can't make food from sunshine and air. You'll stunt your growth if you keep this up. And really, what's so bad about eating, anyway?"

"I think better on an empty stomach. And besides, the maids couldn't cook a decent meal if their lives depended on it."

"Sherlock, why must we always argue like this?" she said, her tone becoming slightly more gentle.

Sherlock shrugged. "Because if we didn't it would upset the natural order?" He didn't voice the actual reasons he was thinking of.

"You can't seem to get along with anyone, in fact. Your teachers tell me you won't listen to them and you're very disruptive in class. You haven't made a single friend, you're always by yourself. Not to mention the fact that you like to play with dead things. That's not normal, dear."

"It's not my fault. They don't like me because I'm different from them, because I'm better than they are at everything. I don't know why, I just am."

"I've been doing some serious thinking, and I believe that the problem lies in the fact that you act much too childishly. You refuse to grow up and find your place in society. From now on, I want you to act more grown up, and to get along better with others."

Now Sherlock was angry. "Did it ever cross your mind that maybe I act childishly because, oh I don't know, I am a child? But no, you and Father wouldn't notice that. You want perfect children, but perfect isn't what you got. You got a freak, and to make me act normal you're going to send me away to boarding school, even after I begged you not to. I'll never be good enough for you, or for anyone, and you can't stand it. People talk about me, about how weird I am, and it humiliates you. All you ever do is boss me around. "Eat your food, sit up straight, don't talk back to me." Nothing I do is ever good enough, to you I'm just an inconvenience. You don't love me, you don't care about me, the only reason you keep me around at all is the hope that one day I'll be able to meet your outrageously high expectations!"

His mother's nostrils flared and her gaze was like ice. "At least I care enough to try to give you a decent future, make you into a respectable man. Your father couldn't care less what happens to you or your brother, all he does is bring home a paycheck but beyond that he doesn't do a damn thing.

"And I will not be spoken to like that again young man, do you hear me? You talk like you try to fit in, like you try to be a good son. But you never do, you do whatever you want without any regard for the consequences, making my life more difficult than it already is. Mycroft controls himself, he behaves and does what is expected of him, and he keeps his thoughts to himself. Why can't you be more like him?"

"Don't you compare me to Mycroft! I'm not a mini-Mycroft, I 'm a completely different human being!"

"You're right, how could I compare you to him? He does what I ask and doesn't argue. His teachers like him and he has friends. He has a future. He doesn't humiliate me. You're nothing like that."

"Then why don't you give me away? If I'm so terrible, why do you put up with it?"

"That's a good question. I suppose the only answer is because I'm your mother, and it's a mother's duty to take responsibility for her children."

"You're such a hero," said Sherlock, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Now, I think it's high time I got rid of the main source of your childish behavior. After all, how can you be expected to grow up if you still play with toys?"

She moved towards his bed and snatched his teddy bear.

"Mummy, no!" shouted Sherlock as he threw himself at her. He tried to get the bear back, but she wouldn't let go.

"It was a mistake letting you have this. It was a gift from when you were born, but I should have thrown it away then and there. You'll thank me for this one day, Sherlock."

"Mummy, stop it! Give it back!" Sherlock pleaded as she made to exit the room.

He clung to her dress in a desperate attempt to stop her, but it was no use.

"Let go, child! I'll have no more of this nonsense! This silly plaything is going into the fireplace, and that's final!"

"I hate you!" he yelled.

She slapped him across the face and tore his hands off of her. He felt to his knees at her feet, imploring her for mercy with his eyes as he put a hand to his sore cheek.

"Caring is not an advantage, dear," she said quietly.

She shut the door, leaving him alone inside. Sherlock threw himself on the bed and valiantly fought the tears that threatened to escape.

It wasn't that he loved the bear all that much. He spoke to it and slept with it but never really played with it. But in a world where no one would give him the time of day, it was all he had. Having the bear on his bed, having something to hold on to on really bad days made him feel not quite so alone. At least the bear couldn't leave, couldn't tell him to go away or to shut up or call him freak. It had no choice but to be his friend. But now he didn't even have that.

In his anger, he tore apart his room. He pulled the sheets off his bed. He pulled the books from the shelves and even tore out some of the pages. He pulled his clothes from their drawers and threw them across the room. Nothing was safe from his anger, not even the model ship he had built that he had been so proud of. He picked it up and threw it out the window.

Once he'd heard the splintering crash from below, he immediately regretted destroying it and collapsed on his bed. Oh, how he hated everyone in this house.

"Go away!" he shouted when he heard someone knocking at the door.

Mycroft came in anyway. "Did a hurricane blow through here?"

"I said go away!" yelled Sherlock as he threw his pillow at him.

"Look, I'm sorry about what happened, and I wanted to cheer you up," said Mycroft as he dodged the pillow.

"The only thing you could do to cheer me up would be to let me use your face for dart practice."

"How about a story instead," said Mycroft as he sat down at the edge of his bed and motioned for Sherlock to join him.

Sherlock conceded, and felt his anger melt slightly as his curiosity grew. "Which one?"

"How about _The Horse and His Boy_? We read _The Lion, The Witch, and The_ _Wardrobe_ last time, and this one is the next book in the series."

"If you insist," said Sherlock with a dismissive wave of his hand. Though in truth, this made him feel almost happy. It had been ages since Mycroft had read to him. Even though he generally preferred to read books himself, he still loved to have fairy tales read to him. Normally he'd hold the teddy bear while he listened, and the memory saddened him. He could practically feel the flames that consumed the closest thing he'd ever had to a friend.

The only problem with having Mycroft read a story, however, was that he thought he could get away with leaving parts out, which of course was unacceptable.

"No, no, no!" cried Sherlock. "You have to call the horse by his full name."

"If Shasta can call him by his nickname, then so can I. I'd go mental if I had to try to say Breehy-hinny-brinny-hoohy-hah every other line."

"And you completely skipped over the part where Aslan turns Rabadash into a donkey!"

"It's not an important part of the story!" Mycroft argued.

"Of course it is! It's the best part of the whole book! Why are you such an idiot?"

"Why do I even bother reading to you if you already have every story memorized?" said Mycroft in frustration as he slammed the book closed.

"Find a book I haven't read yet."

"Or, you could come up with your own story."

"You know what, maybe I will. In my mind palace."

"You're not going there now, are you?"

"No time like the present. Leave, your face is distracting me," said Sherlock as he closed his eyes and put his hands together under his chin as if to pray. Mycroft considered saying more, but then decided against it. There was no point trying to reach Sherlock once he'd retreated into the deepest recesses of his strange mind. He sighed and went back to his own room, and thought he might visit his own mind palace, as well.

Sherlock looked deep within himself and found his mind palace. The way he saw it, it really was like a grand castle, where he was king and no one could annoy him or tell him what to do.

There were many wings with many rooms, each one containing a different type of information that he might need later. He wandered the halls and passageways until he found the one he was looking for: the fairytale room.

Each room was organized and kept neat and tidy (or what he considered neat and tidy, anyway) so that he could find the information he was searching for quickly and easily. However, this was not the case with the fairytale room. This room was where he kept all the fantastic fictional stories he knew. There really wasn't any use for it, and usually that would mean deletion. But he loved these stories and couldn't bear to get rid of them. He believed in using logic and facts, but the fact that these stories were so illogical was like taking a vacation. Facts and logic grounded him, but every now and again he needed to escape to a world where those rules didn't apply.

He didn't even try to maintain order here. All his favorite stories overlapped and spilled over into each other, so that all the characters were there together. He wouldn't speak to them or play with them, he would instead watch them play out their stories in his mind. It was like hiding in a box and using his imagination. It was the only time he ever allowed himself to be a child.

Right now, the setting was the Hundred Acre Wood. From where he was standing, he could just make out Rapunzel's tower in the distance. Down the lane a few feet from where he stood, he saw the Pied Piper leading the children away from their greedy village. Above him, up in the sky, a dragon flew overhead and let loose a blast of wild flames.

"Hello there," he heard someone say.

He spun around and there stood Snow White; her hair raven black, her lips blood red, and her skin whiter than the purest snow. She wore a long yellow dress and a diamond necklace. She was the most beautiful lady he had ever seen, and she was smiling down at him.

"Hi," he said tentatively. "Why are you speaking to me?"

"Why shouldn't I speak to you?" she asked, her voice sweeter than a bird's song.

"Because no one ever does. Not in the real world, and not in my mind palace."

"Well then, I'm pleased to be the first. And frankly, I don't know why anyone wouldn't want to speak to you. You did create this perfect little world for us, after all."

"I didn't create it, I took all my favorite stories and mashed them up together. And none of you are real, anyhow."

"Be that as it may, I still am glad I am the first to hear your voice. What is your name, if I may ask?"

"Sherlock. I know, it's a silly name."

"I don't think it's silly. I think it's a distinguished name, and very fitting for such an extraordinary little boy."

Sherlock couldn't hold back the little smile that tugged at the corners of his lips. He wasn't used to this kind of praise, and he liked it very much.

Just then, out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a shadow move behind a tree.

"Did you see that?" he asked her.

"I did indeed. It was the shadow of a monster that has invaded your mind. If you're not careful, he will destroy you."

"But how can that be? I control what happens in here, it's all just my imagination. I don't have anything to fear in here."

"Normally you'd be right, but this is not a creature like the others here. You created this monster in your nightmares; every dark thought you've ever had has gone into him, been his nourishment. He is called Shadowheart, and he has been lurking in the parts of your mind that even you are not familiar with."

"Why is he called Shadowheart?"

"Because of the darkness inside him. There is no good, no light. Only evil, and an unquenchable thirst for power.

"If you let him, he will take over. He'll break your mind and drive you mad, every day you'll beg for death. And one day, when there is nothing left of your mind to feed off of, he will destroy your body, and you will die. But by then you won't even notice death has come."

"What can I do? How can I stop him? How will I know it's the Shadowheart when I see him?" asked Sherlock.

"For now, you must run whenever you see him. Don't ever even speak to him. I don't have time to explain everything now, because you're fading away. But if you see him, you'll know it's him. His face his grotesque and twisted, made ugly by the evil within him. But that's not how you will know him. You'll know him by looking into his eyes. They are cold and filled with the weight of the darkness in his heart. Run when you see him, and don't look back."

"What do you mean, I'm fading?"

"Look at your hands."

He did, and saw that they had become transparent. The world was growing darker and the color was disappearing, and he realized why: he was falling asleep.

"I'll come back soon!" he called to Snow White.

"I will wait for you, Sherlock!" she called back.

And then there was nothing.


	3. Detour

The next morning, Sherlock pondered what had happened in his mind palace. Surely the Shadowheart was just a figment of his imagination. He might pretend and make things up, but never once did he doubt that they weren't real. The Shadowheart was no exception. There was no way he could be real, let alone have the power to destroy his mind. And yet, he had to keep reminding himself of this, because he was tempted to entertain the possibility that he might be wrong.

He didn't want to think about it anymore, so he distracted himself with another thought: next week was his birthday! Now, Sherlock wasn't the type of child to obsess over his birthday, but he was definitely excited nonetheless.

The first reason was obvious: presents. Sherlock had made sure his mother knew that he wanted a chemistry set, a real one with real chemicals to experiment with. As long as this wish was satisfied, he didn't need anything else.

But beyond gifts, the other reason he was looking forward to that day was because it meant his mother couldn't boss him around and his father would be forced to spend the day with him. Not only that, but he and Mycroft had formed an agreement some years back that they would have to do whatever the other person wanted on their special day. He wasn't sure what he'd have his brother do yet, but he was playing around with a few ideas…

Breakfast passed without much incident. One of the maids tripped and spilled the plate of rolls she'd been carrying, which meant that Sherlock wouldn't have to pretend to eat any of it. His mother sent him to school with a piece of buttered toast with the promise that he'd eat a few bites, but he tossed it in a ditch.

Mycroft had absolutely refused to walk him to school again, and so he would have to endure the swirling torment, worse than any of the circles of Dante's Inferno, otherwise known as the school bus.

As always, there was nowhere for him to sit. Actually, there were many spare seats, but any time he so much as looked at them, the person sitting there would glare at him, or put their stuff there to keep him away.

Even though it was probably against safety rules, Sherlock was forced to sit in the floor at the back of the bus. If the driver could see him, he pretended not to. What made it worse was that there wasn't much to see from down there, and so there was less to observe. Making deductions helped slightly in distracting him from the other's teasing, but all he had to work with was their shoes. There were some deductions he could make based on their shoes, but not very reliable ones.

As if banishing him to the floor wasn't bad enough, the other children mocked him from their seats. They would pretend to make deductions, like him.

"Hey Henry! You've a bit of dirt on your nose, you must be a flower!"

"Libby, your hair is red, you must be a leprechaun!"

Sherlock gritted his teeth and tried to block out their cruel laughter. They were all idiots and he shouldn't care what they thought of him. But if he was so smart, why couldn't he fit in? Why could they make friends when he couldn't? What exactly made him so different from all of them? It was times like these that he wished he wasn't so different from the rest.

After what felt like an insufferable eternity, though in reality was less than ten minutes, they reached the school and Sherlock was free. It wasn't that school was any better than the bus, but at least in school they weren't all crammed together in a tiny space.

Nothing Mrs. Blackburn had to teach them that day was new to Sherlock. Well, except for something about the earth rotating around the sun. He wasn't really paying attention during that part and didn't deem it worth storing in his memory banks.

The bell rang at one point, signaling recess. Sherlock's favorite part of the playground was the swings; he found the backwards and forwards motion to be very relaxing. It was one of the very few ways to get his raging mind to calm down a few notches, but alas, they were both already taken.

He waited patiently by the swings for one of them to get off. After a while, one of them skidded to a stop to push the other one. Sherlock took advantage of his kindness and quickly took the swing. He didn't get very high though before a teacher came and ordered him to give the swing back and apologize. He grumbled an angry apology and left the playground all together.

He decided he would go to the library to pick out a book, and then spend the rest of recess waiting in the classroom. He'd done this many times before, so the teachers didn't try to stop him.

But on his way there, he ran into Rodney Laverne, a twelve year old that liked to pick on him, and a couple of his goons. He was in a higher grade than him, but he had been held back twice and so he was bigger than everyone in his class. He bullied several children, but his favorite target was Sherlock.

Now, everyone in the school disliked Sherlock, some more than others. But they all expressed their dislike in one of two ways: one was to simply ignore him and pretend he didn't exist. The other was to call him names or prank him, or on occasion, beat him up. He hated them all, but in truth, Sherlock preferred the latter group. He loved attention, even if it was negative, because he rarely received any that was positive. To him, it was their way of acknowledging his superior mind.

"Hey Sherlie," sneered Rodney.

"Hello, Rodney," replied Sherlock dismissively. He walked around Rodney and continued towards his destination, but the large boy moved to stand in his way.

"Going somewhere, freak?"

"Just to the library. Then back to class."

"No you're not. We're going to take a little detour."

Sherlock threw a punch at him, landing a blow on his cheek. Unfortunately, he didn't have much muscle on his scrawny body, and so the blow did nothing to stop Rodney. He didn't protest anymore as he was led to the boy's bathroom. He'd learned a long time ago that fighting back only made things worse.

One of his friends checked to make sure the coast was clear, and then they dragged Sherlock into one of the stalls. Rodney shoved his head in the toilet and flushed, and he held his breath and tried not to think about all the germs his face was submerged in as they all laughed at him. His hands shook with suppressed rage and hatred coursing through him. He swore he'd get Rodney back somehow, someday, but for now he was powerless and would just have to wait him out.

Rodney lifted him up by the front of his shirt as Sherlock coughed and spluttered. He shoved his large, bulbous nose in his dripping face. "So they tell me you're some kind of psychic or something. You know all about people just by lookin' at 'em. What I wonder is why you've never done me."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to sneer. "Because you don't want to hear what I've deduced about you."

Rodney's eyebrows lifted slightly, but he said, "Tell me, right now. So I can prove you wrong."

"Okay, but just remember, I did warn you." He paused a moment for effect, and then didn't hold back. "You've always got bruises that you try to cover up. Someone like you would normally flaunt injuries like that; you'd tell people you got them in a fight to make yourself look tougher. But you try to hide them, because you're ashamed of them. At first I thought it was your dad doing it, but even those you'd still like to show off. No, I think it was someone of the female variety. Not your mum, someone else. I'll bet it's your older sister, or a cousin. She makes you dress in her clothes and she beats you up when you protest. You've got a bit of smudged makeup near your ear. I've seen your mum pick up from school, and she doesn't wear makeup, so it must be the sister's. Either she's making you wear makeup, or she kissed you and it rubbed off. You tried to wash it off but you missed a bit. Your sister has made you into a living baby doll for her to play with, and she punishes you when you don't play along. Am I correct?"

He could immediately tell that he'd hit the nail on the head. Rodney's face was contorted and beet red with anger. His whole body was shaking; he was like a volcano, about to erupt. Sherlock knew he should be afraid, but he didn't care. He'd hit Rodney where it hurt most; no amount of swirlies could make him regret it.

His friend's mouths hung open in astonishment. Their big, strong leader had just been brought to his knees by the school freak. Rodney turned to face them, and they ran out of the bathroom as fast as they could, no doubt on their way to spread the story of Rodney, the bully baby doll.

"I hope you enjoyed that, because it's the last deduction you'll ever make," Rodney hissed in his ear.

Rodney set Sherlock down and grabbed his hand, squeezing hard. He led him out of the bathroom, trying to hide his murderous rage while Sherlock did nothing to hide his triumphant smirk.

They passed several adults who didn't notice anything strange about two boys holding hands. Or maybe they chose not to notice since they were two of the least liked children in the student body. Whatever the case, Sherlock wasn't worried. He'd probably end up with a black eye or broken nose, but he could handle that. He'd gone through it before, after all.

Rodney took him off school grounds to the old gym building, the one no longer used. Sherlock felt a raindrop land on his neck; it was beginning to rain.

Before they went inside, Rodney reached down and scooped a handful of small rocks from the pavement and shoved them in his pocket.

They went inside the dark, cold building. He then shoved Sherlock to the ground. Still he was not afraid.

"So what's it going to be? A kick to my ribcage? A few teeth knocked out?" asked Sherlock tauntingly.

"You wish it was that easy." Rodney pulled one of the rocks from his pocket and held it out to Sherlock. "Eat it."

"Excuse me?" This wasn't what he'd expected.

"You've ruined me. No one will ever let me live this down, everyone will know the truth by tomorrow. I can't just let you walk away. Now swallow the rock."

Sherlock was finally forced to concede that maybe he'd taken this too far.

"You wouldn't kill me. It'll be obvious who the culprit is, and they'll lock you away for the rest of your life."

"Don't worry, I'll be careful to hide your body where no one can find it," said Rodney as he grabbed him by his hair and held him in place. Sherlock was finally beginning to take this seriously.

"Open your mouth!" he growled. When Sherlock refused, he pinched his nose shut so he was forced to open up. He then forced the rock into his mouth and covered it with his hand so he couldn't spit it back out. Sherlock tried to resist by not swallowing, but Rodney's hand was blocking his nostrils so he couldn't breathe. He knew he would have to do what Rodney said if he had any chance at coming out of this alive, so he tried to swallow the rock. It was very difficult, he had to fight it, but after several tries it finally went down, scratching his throat as it did.

Rodney uncovered his mouth but kept him in place. Sherlock coughed and fought the wave of nausea as he pulled out another rock. "Now this one."

As the next one was forced into his mouth, he knew that one of those rocks was bound to be too big to swallow, and he would choke to death. And even if he managed to swallow every single one, Rodney would just get more. Or he'd get a bigger one and bludgeon him to death. Either way, his prospects didn't look good. He really was afraid now, but he kept it hidden the best he could.

Sherlock barely managed to swallow the second one. His mouth was now dry as cotton and full of bloody scratches; he wouldn't be able to swallow anymore. But Rodney pulled out a third rock, this one bigger than the last two. Begging was an option, but even in the face of death, he would never give Rodney the pleasure. It wouldn't help anything, anyway.

"I can't do it," gasped Sherlock, his throat blazing. "My mouth is too dry, it hurts, I can't swallow anymore."

"Oh, well if that's the case, let me help you." Rodney shoved the rock down his throat, forcing him to swallow it. Just as Sherlock feared, the rock became lodged in his throat. Rodney released him when he heard him gagging on it, and laughed at his futile attempts to suck in air.

It was clear to him that he was going to die. Would anyone care? He supposed his mother would, somewhat. Mycroft might, a little bit, though he'd be happier being an only child. His father would be more concerned with the cost of the funeral. But no one else would care, no one at all. He felt a single tear run down his face at the thought.

Sherlock laid on the ground, his fingers grasping desperately at his throat. His mouth was wide open in a silent scream. Red spots danced before his eyes as everything began to go dark. The burning in his lungs started fading away as he started to lose consciousness.

Suddenly, a figure appeared and knocked Rodney away.

"Hey!" Rodney shouted. The figure swung what looked to be an umbrella and smashed it against the side of his face. Rodney fell to the floor, unconscious.

The figure dropped down by Sherlock and wrapped his arms around his chest from the back. Sherlock vaguely realized that it was Mycroft, but he no longer had the mental ability to wonder how or why he was here.

"Sherlock Holmes, if you die I'll kill you!" he yelled as he harshly squeezed his chest.

The rock stayed where it was. Sherlock was so far gone he could no longer support his own weight; he was like a ragdoll. Mycroft squeezed his chest again, harder this time, but still nothing happened.

He squeezed his chest one last time, putting all his strength into it. "Come on Sherlock, breathe! Please, breathe! Don't do this to me!" Mycroft pleaded, losing hope.

The rock finally came back up into his mouth, but Sherlock still wasn't breathing. Mycroft laid him on the ground, opened his mouth and took out the rock, then pinched his nose shut and breathed a breath of air into his lungs. He then did chest compressions, all the while worried that he might break one of his ribs. He continued alternating between breaths and compressions, ignoring his own fatigue, refusing to give up and concede defeat. Finally, Sherlock gasped. He coughed uncontrollably and drew fresh air into his starved lungs.

"Oh thank God," said Mycroft breathlessly as he ran a hand through his hair.

He vomited on the ground; the rocks came up with the bile but not easily. He retched painfully until they came back up. They were bloody from the scratches they'd made in his throat and mouth. It was a long time before he could speak.

"Why are you here?" asked Sherlock, his voice raspy. Every word was like another rock going down his throat, but he was too stubborn to let pain get in the way of anything.

"I followed you when I didn't see you going to class. I followed your footprints and found Rodney in the process of murdering you."

"Don't follow me anymore, I don't like it."

"It saved your life today, so don't complain about it."

"Don't you have a life at all? Why do you spend all your time spying on me?"

"To keep you out of trouble."

"Get a job, a girlfriend, or a pet, or something. Just leave me alone."

"You know, a thank you never hurt anyone."

"Thanks for stalking me like a creeper. Happy?"

"If that's really the best you can do."

Just then, Rodney stirred. He opened his eyes, and Mycroft immediately pounced on him.

"Listen, and listen well," snarled Mycroft in his most dangerous voice. "I don't care what my little brother does, you never touch him again. I'm going to keep those rocks you forced down his throat. The blood on them will prove that you used them to try to murder him, I can have the police lock you in prison for years. I won't tell anyone what you did, if you promise to never speak of this day again. But I will save them, in case you get any more ideas about hurting him. But for now…"

Mycroft spent the next several minutes beating the younger boy within an inch of his life. By the time he was done, Rodney looked like Sherlock felt.

Mycroft let up on the assault and helped Sherlock to his feet. He turned back to Rodney and said, "If this happens again, you'll be the one gargling rocks, and I'll make you sing."

Sherlock didn't say anything, but he was rather impressed with Mycroft. It wasn't often he got to see this side of his older brother.

Rodney glared at him menacingly, but did nothing else. The two brothers turned their backs on him. He was having trouble walking, and so Mycroft scooped him up in his arms and carried him. Sherlock pretended to be annoyed, but truthfully he kind of enjoyed it.

"Are you going to tell anyone about this?"

"No, it would only upset Mummy. Not to mention, I just beat the living hell out of a little kid, and I don't think they'd like that, even if I was defending my kid brother."

Sherlock was relieved to hear that. He didn't want a story like this spreading. It would only make him be seen as even more of a freak, and his mother would never let him hear the end of it.

"What did you do to him, anyway?" asked Mycroft as he walked.

"I told him and his friends his darkest, most embarrassing secret. That's all."

"That's all? Sherlock, you can't keep doing this. You might make deductions, but you've got to learn to keep them to yourself. That's why we play Eye Spy, to get it out of your system so that you don't feel the need to give everyone a news flash every time you make a deduction. You've been having trouble making friends, I did too when I was your age. But I learned that it's better to keep your mouth shut, people like you better when you do. Once I learned that, I was finally able to make friends."

"You mean alliances that you'll use someday to take over the government, and then the world."

"Better to make friends with the right people than to make enemies with the wrong ones, which is what you've been doing. Sherlock, in just a few months, after summer holiday, you'll be going to boarding school with me. If you can't learn to control yourself, you'll be making your life there more difficult and miserable than it needs to be. You think regular school is bad? Just you wait until then."

Sherlock was really dreading boarding school. He'd argued with his mother ever since he'd first found out about it, but she was unyielding, as she was with everything else.

"I don't want to blend in, like you. I want to stand out."

"Sherlock, I don't think you understand how serious this is. First of all, you could have died tonight. I don't think that's sunk in. Second, Social Services could take you away. Like when you scream and cry in the street to get your way, people will start to think you're being abused, and they'll put you in a foster home. That would be so much worse than boarding school, you can't even imagine. You could spend the next eight years there, being tormented by the other children, and possibly even your caregivers. You could be adopted by a family that really will abuse you. Bottom line, I understand you better than anyone else, and you would be completely and utterly alone there. Do you want to be taken away? Well, do you?"

"I don't know! Do _you_ want them to take me away?"

"It would make mine and everyone else's lives so much easier. But no, I don't want them to take you."

"But that's not what you're really worried about," said Sherlock, reading between the lines. "You think if I don't learn to act normal that I'll be put in the madhouse."

"You're just one slip-up away from that happening, and they'd never let you out."

"But the doctors said I'm not insane."

"Keep this up and they might change their minds. We're too different, Sherlock. If they think you're a possible menace to society, they could lock you up and throw away the key and not lose any sleep over it. You could do great things with a mind like yours. I learned to keep my head down and keep my deductions to myself. I use them to my advantage, and no one is ever the wiser."

"What's the point of being brilliant if no one sees it? What's the point of being clever if everyone thinks you're just plain and average and dull? I want to be seen for who I am."

"And that's what'll get you into trouble in life. Trust me Sherlock, I learned the hard way that it's better to keep these things to yourself."

"What do you mean?"

Mycroft took a deep, steadying breath and said, "Mum and Father weren't always like they are now. Back when you were very little, our family was actually reasonably happy. But I ruined it by telling Mummy that Father was having an affair with his secretary. I hadn't realized what the effect of what I told her would do. It completely ruined their marriage. They didn't get a divorce to keep up the pretty façade, but they're miserable, all because of me. That's why Father spends all his time at work, Mummy hates him and he hates us. It's why Mummy sleeps with the blacksmith, to get back at him for what he did. I screwed up our family, because I didn't keep my mouth shut. And now I'm telling you Sherlock, so that you don't repeat my mistakes."

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but Mycroft shushed him. "Don't say anything else, you sound like you have throat cancer. I'll tell Mum you came down with laryngitis so she doesn't worry, but you owe me big time for this."

"My chest hurts," he moaned. "Were you dancing on it?"

"I just about had to to bring you back. Now shush."

Sherlock wanted to protest, but his throat was on fire. It had been sheer force of will that had kept him talking before, but now he was content to keep silent.

Mycroft took him home and fed their mother the lie. She ordered him to stay in bed and not move until he recovered. Sherlock was just glad he didn't have to sit through the rest of school.

One of the maids cooked him some broth, and his mother brought it up to his room and didn't leave until he'd downed all of it, which took quite a long time.

For the rest of the day, Sherlock read out of a book about autopsies and the differences the body presented depending on if they were murdered, died accidentally, or if it was natural cause. His mother didn't want him reading about things like that because she considered it too morbid, but he'd gotten it from the library and kept it hidden from her.

If there was a book that he particularly liked, he wouldn't return it to the library and instead keep it in his closet. To keep from getting in trouble, or from getting his library card revoked, he would check the book back in, but then sneak it out again in his backpack. The librarian was elderly and her vision was failing, and so Sherlock never had any problems "borrowing" books.

As the sun was going down, after he had finished the chapter on the lymphatic system, he closed the book and slid it under his bed. His throat was still incredibly sore and he could feel bruises forming on his chest. But the knowledge that he had destroyed Rodney and he could never touch him again far outweighed any physical consequences.

He sat up and clasped his hands together under his chin. Part of him warned that this was a mistake. What he was doing could be dangerous, but the rest of him was too curious to be bothered by the risk of danger, no matter how great the risk may be. And this time, he was determined not to fall asleep.

He closed his eyes and went back to his mind palace. The great, wooden door that led to the story room opened easily at his touch, and he was back in his made up world of impossible things.

"Sherlock!"

"Snow White!"

Snow White ran over to him and threw her arms around him, and he returned her embrace.

"Where have you been? I was worried about you," she said when they broke apart.

"I had to go to school. I can't wait until it's all over with," said Sherlock. In his mind, he didn't sound like one of the undead, and his throat didn't hurt at all.

"You know, if you chose to stay here, you wouldn't have to go to school," said Snow as she took his hand in hers and led him down the path they were standing on.

The scenery had changed somewhat, as it usually did in his mind. Instead of the Hundred Acre Wood, they were now in the forest from Narnia, with Mt. Olympus nearby. The ground was blanketed in snow, and icicles hung from the trees. As they walked by the lamp post, he imagined himself a nice, warm coat. When he offered to do the same for her, she declined.

"What are you talking about? I can't stay in here forever, even if I wanted to. You don't seem to grasp that this place isn't real, and neither are you."

"You don't understand the potential your mind has. Children are taught that their imagination is a bad thing, and that to grow up it must be discarded. But if you allow it to grow, it can become reality."

"How? With magic?" asked Sherlock sarcastically. "Are you trying to tell me I'm some kind of wizard?"

"Such a silly little boy. Tell you what, stay here with me, and I'll show you what I mean. No, you're not a wizard, I'm sorry to disappoint you.

"However, I know someone who can show you how to bring this little world of yours to life. He's here inside your head, but you've never seen him before. I can bring you to him and he'll gladly help you."

"You mean like the Wizard of Oz? What'll he do, give me a heart, or a brain?"

Snow chuckled, then said gently, "I sense that you want to believe me, but you're using snark as a means of protection against disappointment. I am so sorry that the people around you have made you feel like you must do this, but I promise I'm not like that. The Wizard is a good man, he will not let you down."

"I'm not sure about this, about any of it."

Just then, Snow White let out a scream of fright. "Sherlock, behind you! It's Shadowheart!"

Sherlock turned and saw the most hideous face he'd ever seen in his life staring right back at him. He moved just as the beast tried to grab him, and the two of them ran.

"Sherlock!" the beast called out to him, its voice like the sound of fingernails on a chalkboard. It hurt his ears just to hear it, and he covered his ears against the sound. It stretched out its gnarled hand and chased after him.

Sherlock couldn't resist and he chanced a glimpse back. The monster's face was twisted and contorted, and its skin looked like it had been burned in a fire. It had no hair, and it had rows of sharp, yellowed teeth. Its flesh reeked like a rotting corpse, making him feel sick.

Shadowheart was closing in, his outstretched hands mere inches from grabbing his shirt. Sherlock realized the only way he could escape would be to leave his mind palace completely. He had barely spent any time away and he didn't want to leave yet, but he didn't want to be caught, either.

He began to retreat from the story room, hating that he had to leave Snow behind, even if she was just a figment of his imagination.

As the world faded to black, he heard Snow White call out to him, "Will you come back?"

He didn't answer, because he wasn't sure of the answer himself.

The last sound he heard before he came back to himself was the defeated roar of the beast. But this was far from over.

* * *

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	4. Shoes and a Birthday Card

A week passed. Sherlock had, for the most part, recovered from Rodney's attempt on his life. His throat was no longer sore, but his voice was still pretty hoarse.

It was mid-morning, and he was sitting at the table, drinking a cup of coffee, alone. His mother was at a bridal shower for the daughter of one of her friends, and his father was at work, like always. Mycroft had gone out as well, but he hadn't said where he was going or what he was doing. Because there was no one to force him to go to school, he stayed home. When the school called to report him absent, he deleted the message from the answering machine, but that was all he did to cover himself. He didn't take the time to call in sick or even forge a doctor's note, he just didn't go.

Besides, there were much more important things happening at the moment. He'd been reading in the newspaper about a time capsule they would be burying in the park in a few days, to be dug up again in twenty-five years, when he noticed a story about a champion swimmer who'd drowned in a pool. Just a boy, eleven years old, not much older than him. Carl Powers was his name, and he had come up from Brighton for a school sports tournament.

The paper said he'd had a fit in the water. Everyone thought it was a tragic accident, and maybe they were right, but he wanted to see for himself. It was his first case, and he was very eager to solve it.

He left the house and walked down the street to the pool where Carl had died. He elected to not take a cab, and to instead enjoy the freedom of being on his own, like an adult.

Even though it was deemed an accident, the police were still investigating, though it was more to wrap things up than for anything else. Sherlock slipped under the police tape and snuck inside, knowing that he could be discovered and thrown out at any time.

He found the indoor pool where it had happened. His eyes scanned the room for any obvious signs that the police might have missed; there were none. Then he moved on to the not so obvious.

He left the pool area itself and came upon the locker room. It occurred to him that Carl had most likely used one of these lockers. Which one, and what had he left there? Perhaps it held a clue to what really happened.

"What do you think you're doing here, half-pint?" he heard someone say from behind him.

He was caught. He turned and saw a hulking police officer towering above him. Although he was large and muscular, he had a kind face.

"I was investigating Carl's death," Sherlock explained.

"Oh I see, you wanna be a cop someday, kid?"

"No, the justice system never fails to disappoint me. But I am interested in finding Carl's murderer."

The officer was clearly taken aback by his unusually sophisticated vocabulary, so much so that he wasn't offended by what he'd said.

"You think it was murder?" the cop asked. "What makes you think that?"

"I'm not quite sure yet, something isn't right. Would you mind telling me what was in Carl's locker?"

"I'm afraid I can't do that. We're not allowed to just give out information when we're on a case all willy-nilly."

"But you're already wrapping up the case. If it really was an accident, then there shouldn't be a problem. It was probably just his clothes and deodorant, anyway."

The cop couldn't make heads or tails of this kid. He didn't even feel right calling him a kid, because no kid could be that smart. But since he was just a child, and since the case was technically closed, he couldn't see the harm in sharing this bit of information with him.

"Just his clothes; a shirt, trousers, and some socks. That was all."

"What about shoes?"

"Shoes?"

"Well, if he had socks in his locker, shouldn't his shoes have been there with them? If he didn't leave them in his locker, then what did he do with them? Surely he didn't leave Brighton without them."

"What are you saying?" asked the cop.

"I'm saying that Carl was murdered, and whoever did it stole his shoes."

"A lot of people saw the kid drown, no one was holding his head underwater. How could it have been murder?"

"I don't know yet. All I'm saying is that you need to reopen the case and treat it like a murder, not an accident. There's a killer out there somewhere who is getting away with taking this boy's life, and will likely kill again if he's not stopped."

"Listen, we appreciate your concern, but you're basing all this on shoes, or lack thereof. It's just not enough to go on, you understand, right? His parents have been through enough, and making them suspect their son was killed without solid evidence will only make it worse."

"Do you believe me?" asked Sherlock.

"Yeah, yeah I do."

"No you don't. I can see it in your body language. You won't make eye contact with me, and your hands are fidgeting. You think I'm being paranoid. You won't take me seriously because I'm a child. Maybe I am, and maybe Carl's death was an accident, but you can't deny that something isn't right here."

"Listen kid, I think it's time for you to go home now," said the cop defensively. "Where are your parents?"

"Not here right now. Don't worry, I can find my way home," said Sherlock, his shoulders hunched in defeat.

_Being a kid is the worst_, he thought to himself as he left the building. No one took him seriously, no one listened or cared to what he had to say.

"Hey, kid!"

He turned and saw a boy close to Mycroft's age running up behind him.

"I noticed you talking to a cop back there. Do you really think that Carl kid was murdered?"

"I _know_ he was," replied Sherlock, wondering why this boy was so interested when no one else was.

"How do you know?" asked the boy, now walking alongside him. He popped a stick of gum in his mouth and chewed it.

"His shoes were missing, and I doubt they just walked away on their own. Someone took them, and I'll bet a year's allowance that it was the killer."

"Why would someone kill just for shoes?" asked the boy curiously.

"I don't think it was for the shoes. The killer probably took them as a trophy of his victory. He did it for fun, the shoes were just a bonus."

"Do you have any suspects?"

"One, but it's highly unlikely. Rodney Laverne. He goes to my school."

"What makes you suspect him?"

"He tried to kill me last week when I humiliated him and destroyed his reputation, and made him into a laughing stock."

"If that's the case, what makes it so unlikely that he did it?"

"Because he doesn't really have any motive for doing it, that I know of. Also, because he's a brutish, simple-minded oaf who can barely string two words together to form a sentence. Whoever killed Carl was very smart, he knew what he was doing. He did it in such a way that the police don't suspect a thing. It might not even be his first murder, but either way, he's very good at what he does."

"I see…" said the boy. He blew a bubble with his gum, popped it, and then began chewing it again.

"Why are you so interested anyway? Who are you?" asked Sherlock as he looked up at him.

"Oh, just a friend," he replied. "You can call me Jim."

He flashed him a smile, then turned around and went the other way.

* * *

The next morning, as Sherlock laid in his bed, his mind in the grey area between sleeping and waking, he had a feeling there was something he was forgetting.

He'd had trouble sleeping the night before. At four in the morning, he'd taken out his violin and played it. He hadn't even bothered to make it have any semblance to music, he played without listening, expressing his deep inner thoughts through sound.

Mycroft had come and beaten on his door and yelled at him to stop. When he refused, he'd barged in, snatched the violin out of his hands, and ran off with it. Sherlock roared and chased his brother though the whole house. He managed to catch up and pounce on his back and ride him like a horse, both of them making enough racket to raise the dead.

It didn't end until their mother stormed down the stairs and threatened to strangle them both if they didn't get back to bed immediately.

This led him back to his original question: what was he forgetting? There was a reason he hadn't been able to sleep, but what?

Then it finally clicked: it was his birthday! Finally, he was eight! He threw off the covers and jumped up and down on his bed in delight. Not only that, but it was Saturday, so he wouldn't have to waste any of his special day at school.

Without changing out of his pajamas, he leapt off the bed and darted out the door and slid down the banister down the stairs.

"All hail the birthday king!" he shouted into the air, even though he wasn't allowed to raise his voice indoors.

"Get in the living room, birthday brat!" he heard Mycroft call.

He went into the living room and found his mother and brother waiting for him. Both of them wore matching tight, genuine smiles.

"Where's my present?" asked Sherlock, not trying at all to contain his enthusiasm.

"Here you are, dear," said his mother as she handed him a box wrapped in baby blue paper with a green bow on top.

Sherlock shook it and deduced what it was before he opened it. Gleefully, he tore it open and let out a whoop of delight when he saw it was a chemistry set. Closer inspection showed that it didn't contain any of the chemicals he'd hoped for (the ones labeled "dangerous") but it was better than nothing. His mother never hugged him, but for once he actually considered hugging her.

"Now for my one wish from Mycroft," said Sherlock after he'd put the chemistry set down beside him on the couch. There was a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Name it. As long as it's legal this time," said Mycroft, slightly concerned about what evil idea was festering in his little brother's mind.

Apparently, using Mycroft as a human piñata was not considered legal. So Sherlock settled for going to the history museum across town. Sherlock got dressed and Mycroft borrowed some money from their mother, and the two of them hailed a taxi and went to the museum.

Sherlock had wanted to come here for some time, as he'd never been here before. There wasn't anything particularly special about it, except for the fact that it contained the mummified corpses of people from many centuries ago. He wanted to see if he could figure out how they died.

Before he went to the bodies, he and Mycroft explored each exhibit. Sherlock wanted to gain as much knowledge as he could before he made his deductions. Once he felt he had done enough studying, he went for the bodies like any other child would go for the candy shop.

"Mycroft, I think this lady was murdered!" he said as he pointed to a very poorly mummified woman.

"You think all of them were murdered," replied Mycroft dismissively. He was trying to figure out their deaths as well, but he was keeping his deductions to himself.

"No really, I think I solved her murder."

"Good luck catching the killer."

"I already have. She's the corpse you're looking at right now. She was murdered by her newly wed husband's ex-lover. What a stupid thing to be murdered over."

"It does happen a lot, doesn't it? And yet no one ever learns," said Mycroft as he shook his head. He then said, "But I bet you didn't realize that right after killing her, she tripped and hit her head on a rock. A pretty stupid way to go, and right after she'd beaten her adversary. The husband recovered quickly though, and found himself a new woman just a few days later."

"What are you two boys talking about?" asked a tour guide, who'd been listening in. "There's no information on either of these bodies, no one knows who they are or how they died."

Mycroft winked at Sherlock, who returned it with a smug grin. "Oh don't mind us, we clearly have no idea what we're talking about. Now, don't you have more important things to do than eavesdrop on children?"

"Yes, right," said the guide as he cleared his throat in embarrassment. He then left to find his tour group.

They spent the next several hours deducing how each body had died, ignoring the concerned looks they kept getting. Nevermind that they couldn't prove any of their deductions, they knew they were right. Sherlock thought it was his best birthday yet and couldn't be happier. That is, until he returned home.

He was surprised to see his father's car outside. His mother had explained that he wouldn't be able to make it, but something must have changed. He ran inside excitedly to see him.

His father was sitting at the dining room table, eating dinner.

"Hello, Father," he said as he went over to stand by him. Without looking at him, his father handed him an envelope.

"Happy birthday," he said in a dull monotone. This was more than he had expected, and he eagerly tore open the card.

_Happy birthday!_ The card read in big, bright, colorful letters. Sherlock flipped it open, and as he did, the smile died on his face.

"Happy birthday… Mycroft?" said Sherlock. His disappointment quickly transformed into a seething rage.

"Is there a problem?" his father asked, still without looking at him.

"Is there a problem? Of course there's a problem! My name is Sherlock. You know, you're other son. Is it really so difficult to tell us apart, or are two boys a bit more than you can keep track of?"

Finally his father looked up at him and realized what he had done. "My apologies son, my mistake."

"That's not good enough! You couldn't be bothered to make sure you had the right kid. You just took a wild guess and went with it. I hate you!"

Unfazed by this, his father replied, "Calm down, boy. I honestly don't see why you're getting so worked up over this. It was an honest mistake."

"It's a big deal because you couldn't care less about me. You didn't want children, Mycroft and I were accidents. It's like you think if you ignore us we'll eventually go away. You think you're so high and mighty, but I know your secret!"

Now his father looked concerned. His eyes widened, and a bead of sweat rolled down his forehead.

"Sherlock, don't," Mycroft warned him as he tried to pull him back, but he resisted. He knew exactly what secret Sherlock was talking about; the lie that he'd tried so hard to keep hidden. But he couldn't hide anything from them. They'd both kept his secret, for different reasons. Mycroft, to keep the peace and to keep from dividing the family any further. Sherlock, to use against him as leverage. If he divulged the secret, things would never be the same in their household.

"What's going on?" asked his mother as she entered the room.

Their father said nothing to her, but whispered to Sherlock, "I am begging you, don't do this."

"Father was fired from his job over a month ago," began Sherlock mercilessly. "He didn't tell you because he was too ashamed to admit it. He couldn't get another job and so he got in with the mob. He's been helping them distribute drugs all over London, but mostly he acts as the matriarch's boy toy."

"Is this true?" asked his mother in a deadly whisper.

Father's face had drained of color, he was whiter than the tablecloth. That was more telling than any confession.

"How could you?" Mother screeched. "Do you know what this will do to the family name if it gets out? You'll have ruined us!"

"Our reputation has already been tainted by the two freaks you call children!" he yelled back as he stood up from his chair. "People are always whispering, talking about us like we're from space. You wouldn't believe some of the rumors I've heard. There's something not right about them, there always has been. I don't know where they got it or how they do it, but there is something wrong with their brains."

"And what do you suppose we do about it?" demanded Mother.

"Take them to a doctor! Have them locked up!"

"I have taken both of them to several psychiatrists. Some say it's sociopathy, others think it's Asberger's. They can't seem to make up their minds on it, but they all more or less agree that unless anything changes, they don't fit the qualifications of madness and don't need to be put in a sanitarium."

"You could have fooled me. Sociopath, that's code word for bloodthirsty maniac. They all end up going mad and killing people just because they feel like it, and we're raising two more to add to the lot! You wait, we'll see them both on the news someday for murder.

"You do whatever you think is best with them, because I have had it with this poor excuse for a family, and I am leaving. I don't care about our public image anymore, I'm done with you, you filthy attention-seeking slut! Sleeping around all the time to get back at me for a one night stand. How dare you judge me when you're willing to go lower just for revenge. And I don't want to ever see the two freaks again. It'd be better if they were dead."

Their father stalked out the door without taking anything with him. He didn't even limp, not bothering to keep up the charade of his injured leg. They heard the car rev up and drive away.

"Good riddance," Mother said coldly.

She immediately began collecting picture frames and photo albums and cut out her husband's face with scissors.

Sherlock was stunned by what had just happened. He'd stood by quietly while his parents yelled at each other, witnessing the power of his observations and deductions at work. He had known the secret would bring his father down low, but he'd never expected this. He was hurt that his father thought he was a monster, that he wished he was dead, but he was glad to see him go.

"Do you have any idea what you've done!" Mycroft shouted at him. Sherlock flinched at the sound. "You drove our father away, and he's not ever coming back! Didn't I tell you to keep your mouth shut? Didn't I say there'd be consequences if you couldn't stop showing off? Now you've torn apart our family, I hope you're proud."

Mycroft marched up the stairs, wanting nothing more to do with his brother. He was disgusted with his father, for neglecting him and Sherlock, but he was also hurt. Were they really monsters? He knew he would never kill anyone in cold blood without just cause, but was that what the world expected out of him? Out of both of them?

Mother collected her husband's photos and tossed them into the fireplace. As she did so, Sherlock tugged at her sleeve.

"Mummy, do you think Mycroft and I are monsters?" he asked tentatively.

"I don't know, dear. I need time to think about all this," she said with a heavy sigh. "Run off to bed now."

"If we were, would you leave too?"

"I don't know."

"Do you wish we were dead, or that you'd never had us?"

"I don't know. Stop asking questions."

Sherlock didn't need to here anymore. He trudged up the stairs, heart heavy with all that had happened. His great birthday, completely ruined.

He refused to be like Mycroft and hide his genius. This incident should have deterred him, but if anything, it made him more determined to show the world what he was capable of. How else would he prove he wasn't a mad killer?

He knew what he needed to do. He needed to take his mind off all this, distract his brain from the buzzing thoughts in his head.

He went to his dresser and took out a belt. He'd gotten the idea after Rodney's attack. The feeling of choking had been awful, but after it was over, the sudden rush of blood and oxygen to his starved brain had felt great. And now he was going to recreate it.

He sat on the bed so that he wouldn't hurt himself if he fell over. He took the belt and wrapped it around his neck; not too tight so it wouldn't leave a mark, just tight enough to cut off the flow of oxygen.

He let his lungs burn for about half a minute, then let go and allowed circulation back to his brain. He gasped and coughed, but it gave him a brief sense of euphoria, a high that made him feel light-headed and giddy. The feeling of near death was addicting, and once he'd caught his breath, he did it again.

He couldn't let Mycroft find out, because he'd go straight to their mother and tell on him. If he was caught, his mother would strangle him for real. He would have to be extremely careful.

He released the belt again and felt the high, but it did nothing to relieve his overactive, racing mind. Normally he didn't mind it too much, but right now he just wanted an escape.

He did it a third time, but this time he held it too long and when he released it, he fell into a state of semi-consciousness. Without meaning to, he found himself going to his mind palace, to the story room.

Here, he couldn't feel the effects of the Choking Game. He immediately made up his mind, he knew what he wanted, and he was going to take it.

Snow White found him again quickly. "Sherlock, it's so good to see you. I was afraid you wouldn't be coming back."

"Snow, I've made my decision," he said without even a hint of doubt. "I want to stay here forever, I want it to become real. I still don't see how it could be possible, but I don't care anymore. Take me to the Wizard."


	5. Escape

"This is wonderful news!" Snow White exclaimed. "What made you change your mind?"

"I need to get away from my rotten family, and everything else in my rotten life. I want to be free, and this is the only way I know how."

Sherlock still wasn't totally convinced that what Snow White promised could ever be true. But after all that had happened, he was willing to give it a shot. And what was the worst that could happen in his imagination?

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Sherlock. Are you sure you want to do this?"

"More sure than I've ever been about anything."

"Good. Now then, the journey to the Wizard will take three days. I will guide you so you don't become lost."

"Wait, if this is all inside my head, why can't I just imagine us there?"

"The Wizard is different than the others in this place, like me. You can't bring him here or take us there, you have to go to him. Besides, you wouldn't know how to take us there, would you?"

She had him there. He had created this little world and everything in it, but he didn't have much control over it beyond that. The scenery change was all done by his subconscious, he didn't choose what it would be. He could do small things, but he didn't know how to imagine them somewhere else, not yet anyway.

"This is all so confusing."

"I know, but it will get better, I promise. Soon you'll learn how to control it, and then you will truly be king in here."

Snow White took his hand in hers and led him down the way. The landscape this time was the Land of Oz, and Snow was leading him down the yellow brick road. He could even see some Munchkins going in and out of their tiny houses just a few feet away. It made sense that this was the place his mind had dreamt up, since he was going to see the Wizard. He wondered if they might run into any scarecrows, tin men or lions along the way.

For hours they walked, with the sun beating down on them. Sherlock quickly grew bored; he needed some kind of mental stimulation. He was tempted to complain to Snow White about it, but decided he didn't want to trouble her. He'd wait until the boredom became unbearable to do that.

At one point along the way, he watched as Little Red Riding Hood spoke with the Big Bad Wolf. He briefly thought about warning her away, but then decided against it. It was just a story, but it felt so real.

In the far off distance he could see three houses; one made of straw, one made of sticks, and the last made of bricks. If it was the same wolf for each story, then he must be pretty busy.

Sometime later, as they reached a bridge made of stone, the sun went down, cooling the land and casting it in shadow. There was a full moon that cast enough light for them to see, but no stars.

"Are we still going the right way?" asked Sherlock.

Snow nodded her head yes. "We'll need to stop for the night, after we cross the bridge."

As Sherlock stepped onto the bridge, a horrifying phantom rose from beneath it and let out a bloodcurdling shriek. It wore a long black cloak, and a hood obscured its face from view. Only two bony hands could be seen.

"What is that?" cried Snow.

"…I read a lot of horror novels," replied Sherlock, and even though he knew he should be frightened, this was the best thing that had happened so far in the story room. A grin spread across his face with excitement.

Two more poltergeists appeared, and one of them flew over Sherlock's head, so close its cloak brushed through his curls.

"I think we should get away from here!" said Snow White.

"They can't hurt us! The only one who can hurt us is Shadowheart, these blokes are completely harmless."

The ghosts howled; the sound a haunting mix of fury and pain. Their fingers brushed Sherlock's head and shoulders, as though they didn't know what to make of him.

"I still don't like this," said Snow as one of them flew past her, blowing her hair back.

Just as Sherlock was about to try to reassure her, a group of men with spears in hand approached them.

"Stay back, fair lass and child!" the one who appeared to be the leader said. "Those are demons, they'll have your soul!"

At first Sherlock was surprised that they were speaking to him. It was one thing for Snow White to do it, but these men weren't exactly friendly looking. He reasoned that it was because he was going deeper into this place than he ever had before.

"How do you plan to fight the undead?" he asked curiously. "I don't think your spears will do them much harm."

"The spears are our protection from the other beasts that inhabit this land. No, for demons we carry holy water, salt, and silver stakes. Now move away so we can kill them!"

"But they're harmless!" said Sherlock. "I control them, they're not dangerous."

"Are you mad, boy? There is nothing harmless about demons. Now, unless you plan to join them, get away so we can do our jobs!"

Sherlock had been about to continue arguing when one of the demons suddenly flew over to one of the men and sank long, jagged teeth into his neck. The man let loose a piercing scream, then fell to the ground. When he rose up, his face was like a mummified skull, only more terrible.

_So that's what they look like underneath their hoods_, he thought to himself.

"Now do you see what you've done, foolish child!" the leader screamed as he and his remaining men fought against the demons.

Snow White grabbed his hand and pulled him away. "I knew those things weren't harmless!"

"I'm sorry, I didn't know! I forgot that they would attack others. I knew they wouldn't attack me…"

"Because you created them?"

"And because I'm real, and they're not."

"Like me," said Snow White sadly.

"I'm sorry," he repeated.

She shook her head. "Don't be. Even if I'm not real, I still get to have this adventure with you, don't I?" she said with a small smile.

As they began walking again, Sherlock asked, "So tell me about this wizard. What is he like?"

"He is such a wonderful, brilliant man. His hair is silver and he wears a bowtie, and he never hesitates to help anyone in need. He won't let you down, I promise."

"What will it be like, when this place becomes real?"

"I don't know, I can't imagine it. I'm sure it will be fantastic, though. A place that no one would ever want to leave from."

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock spotted the White Rabbit dart down a hole. _Alice in Wonderland _wasn't one of his favorite stories, but he had to wonder, if her story were true, would she have felt the same way he did here?

It was very late now, and so they decided to stop for the night and rest. They settled down in a small clearing a short way from the road. The night air was chilly, but not uncomfortable.

Snow White fell asleep quickly, but Sherlock didn't sleep at all that night. He often suffered from insomnia, due to his inability to turn off his hyperactive mind. He'd slept a few hours the night before, and so tonight he could barely keep his eyes shut.

As he lay there in the grass, to distract himself he focused on all the sounds he could hear that couldn't be heard in the daytime. The first sound he heard was Snow's light breathing from a few feet away.

The next sound he heard was crickets chirping. He tried to count them, but there were too many even for him. He opened his eyes and saw fireflies flying above his head, as though filling in for the missing stars.

He never heard crickets chirp or saw fireflies blink their tails where he lived, in the city. It almost made him wish he lived in the country, where life was more peaceful. But the city was where he belonged. There were more murders to be investigated there.

It didn't take very long for things to get too peaceful. Sherlock found himself wishing more demons would appear. He almost wished Shadowheart would come and challenge him or try to kill him or something. Anything, to keep from being bored.

Sherlock counted the seconds until the darkness began to fade and the sun took its place. He counted 20,149 seconds.

The sun began to rise in the sky, casting the sky in a light shade of pink.

He crouched down by Snow's side and said, "Snow! Snow White, wake up! It's morning, we need to get going."

"It can't be morning already," she protested. Her hair was messy and there were circles under her eyes from not enough sleep, but she was still the fairest of them all.

"We have one every day. Now, we must be going, I can't sit still any longer or I'll explode. Mycroft's seen me explode, and he can tell you, it's not a pretty sight."

"All right, I'm up," she said as she sat up and stretched her arms.

Once Snow had gotten over her grogginess, they set off again.

"You must have slept well, you don't seem tired at all," she commented.

"Actually, I didn't sleep at all, thanks for asking."

"Such a strange boy…"

They walked for a couple hours, until Snow stopped and said, "I'm famished, how about you?"

In truth, Sherlock had an even smaller appetite than usual (which was saying something). But he couldn't let Snow White starve, so he nodded his head yes.

"There's a grove of apple trees not far from here. We can pick some of them to eat."

Sure enough, farther up the path, there was a small apple orchard. Snow didn't hesitate to pluck a shiny red one from the first tree she came to.

"Wait," said Sherlock. "Aren't these trees alive? Won't they get angry at us for picking their fruit?"

Snow looked at him curiously. "Why would you think that?"

"Because that's how it went in the _Wizard of Oz_ story. And since we're traveling on a yellow brick road to see a wizard, I just assumed…"

"Oh don't worry, we passed those trees a long while ago. These trees are harmless. Come, have an apple," said Snow as she picked another and handed it to him to eat.

He accepted the apple and took a small bite out of it. He swallowed, then said, "Don't you think this is a bit ironic?"

"Ironic? What do you mean?"

"It's just that in your story, your wicked stepmother, the evil queen, poisons you with an apple. She puts you into a death-like sleep."

Snow looked horrified. "She's going to curse me. She's going to make everyone think I'm dead, and what will become of me? Will it really be like I'm asleep, or will I spend the rest of my life in a never-ending nightmare?"

"Don't worry, your prince charming will come and break the spell with a kiss. Something about true love conquering all, or some other such nonsense," said Sherlock as he tossed the apple into the air and caught it in his hand. "But yeah, you turn out fine."

"I know my stepmother hates me, but to really put such a curse on me, just to be the most beautiful? How could someone be so evil?"

"If it makes you feel any better, she meets a rather grisly end. In the movie she falls off a cliff, but in the book she's forced to wear a pair of glowing-hot iron shoes and dance until she drops dead. I like the book better."

"You came here to escape your own mother. Is she as bad as mine?"

Sherlock was first tempted to say, "Much worse." But he knew that wasn't true. She was far from perfect (and that was putting it kindly) and she believed caring was a disadvantage, but she must care about him on some level. Enough to stick around, anyway.

In the end, he said, "I don't think it's a fair comparison. Other than the few times she's thrown plates and frying pans at my head when I aggravated her, she's never actually plotted to kill me. Or if she has, she's never acted on it."

"What about the rest of your family? Are none of them good to you?"

"Well, my father thinks I should never have been born." He kept his tone nonchalant, but on the inside his words stung. "He expects to read about me in the papers someday for murder. There's not much more to say about him than that, other than that he's a pathetic coward.

"My brother often gets confused and thinks he's the mother of the family. He thinks it's his job to check up on everyone, especially me. He follows me around a lot, and I expect he'll keep doing it until he finds a more efficient way of doing it. He's a nosy prat and I can't stand him," declared Sherlock.

He silently added, _But at least he's knows what it's like being like this, different from everybody else. He at least makes an attempt to be a good brother, even if he fails miserably at it most of the time._

Snow White finished her apple, but stopped Sherlock as he'd been about to toss his into a bush.

"Keep it. You haven't eaten in so long, and you might need your strength later."

Sherlock didn't see the point; there was no way he'd eat any more of it and there was no other purpose for it, but he relented anyway. He stuck it in his pocket and they continued onwards.

"Only two more days to go," he muttered to himself. If he didn't die of boredom first.

How did ordinary people deal with boredom so easily? It was the one mystery he would never solve.


	6. The Dragon

Sherlock and Snow White had just come through a haunted forest when Shadowheart appeared in the way, about ten feet in front of them.

"Sherlock!" he screeched in that horrible voice of his.

Sherlock and Snow White broke into a run, doing a U-turn back into the woods, with Shadowheart close behind. The monster looked like he was falling apart at the seams, but he was still very fast.

"Come back! Sherlock!"

"Run faster!" Snow shouted.

Sherlock pushed his legs harder than ever; his breathing was fast and shallow and he could feel his muscles tiring. It was only a matter of time before they would be caught.

He could leave his mind palace to escape the terrible creature, like all those times before, but he refused to even consider it. He never wanted to leave here again, and that meant he'd have to take the bad with the good. He would face Shadowheart if he had to, he would be brave.

Sherlock thought to himself, _If only we had a place to hide_. He remembered that this world belonged to him; he created it, he could control it. He focused all his thoughts on a place they could hide. It was hard to focus and keep from running into anything at the same time.

With each step he took and nothing happened, he began to give up on a hiding place. Just when he'd been about to stop trying, they came to a small cliff, just a few feet high. They jumped off, and underneath it was a small cave. Sherlock pulled Snow inside and worked on breathing as quietly as possible.

The beast jumped and landed on the ground. From where they were sitting, they could only see up to its knees. Shadowheart paused, then ran off.

Sherlock and Snow White waited for half an hour before coming out, to be sure he had gone.

"I think it's safe to leave now," whispered Snow. "Though I don't know how we'll find our way back again. We're lost."

"We're not lost, I can get us back to where we were," Sherlock assured her.

Snow White stepped out first, and then Sherlock. But just as he stepped out into the shade of a tall, hollow tree, he felt a pair of long, bony fingers grab him by the chest and throw him over his shoulder. It was Shadowheart, and he'd outsmarted him.

"No!" cried Snow as she threw herself at him and tried to help Sherlock escape, but it was no use. The beast knocked her down easily and ran off with the boy.

"Snow!"

"I'll find you!" she yelled back as tears streamed down her face. "Whatever it takes, I'll save you from him!"

"Let me go!" said Sherlock as he punched and clawed at the beast. No matter how much he squirmed and struggled, he could not break free of his powerful grip.

He looked back; Snow White was nowhere to be seen. He was alone with the monster.

"Aren't you going to say anything, like how you plan to destroy my mind and body? Aren't you going to gloat about how you've won?"

Shadowheart didn't respond, he just kept running.

"Speak to me, you animal!"

Still, nothing.

"What is wrong with you? Why can't I just get rid of you? You exist inside my head, you were spawned by my darkest thoughts, you should be at my mercy!"

"You did not create me," he finally spoke.

"What? What are you talking about, of course I created you! How else could you be inside my head?"

Nothing from Shadowheart.

"Oh I see, you think you're real. You think you're real, and I'm fake. You probably even think you created me, and all this is your doing. Well, you can quit deluding yourself, because everything in here is mine. It's my mind palace, and you're just another part of it."

"You did not create me," he repeated. The way he said it, like it was the only truth in a world of lies, unsettled Sherlock greatly.

Sherlock didn't speak to him anymore for the rest of the trip. A few hours later, they arrived at an old Victorian style haunted house. The grass surrounding it was long, but dead looking. Every window was broken; it was like a mouth with jagged teeth. The door hung open on its hinge, as if someone had tried to pull it off but given up halfway through. Sherlock vaguely wondered if this was where the demons came from.

Shadowheart brought him inside and set him down on the floor. He then surprised Sherlock by going over to an old fireplace and starting building a small fire in the hearth.

The house was full of furniture, but it was all torn up and covered in dust. The wallpaper was peeling from the walls, and in some places it was splattered with blood. A murder had taken place here, once upon a time. There were picture frames adorning the walls, but they were all empty, as though the pictures had come to life and now wandered the house like ghosts. Despite the warmer temperature outside, the house inside was freezing.

He hadn't ever read a book with a house like this. He'd read plenty of novels about haunted houses, but none of them were described like this. He figured his mind must have taken all the haunted houses he'd read about and mashed them all together into this one, so that it was unique.

"I won't let you drive me mad," said Sherlock as the fire sparked to life, though it gave off little heat. "You can't win."

Shadowheart rose from his kneeling position by the hearth. "You need to wake up."

"I won't ever wake up again. I'm not sure how I'll manage it yet, but I'm not leaving this place ever again."

"If you don't, you'll die."

"This is all part of your plan to take over my mind. Well, it won't work. I'm stronger than you."

"Sherlock, I don't expect you to believe me, but you must listen. I am not your enemy. I'm not trying to hurt you, I'm trying to save you. If you don't leave your mind palace soon, it will be too late."

"Why should I listen to you? You kidnapped me!"

"To get you away from her!"

"Get me away from whom?"

"Snow White! You must stay away from her! She's not your friend, she wants to keep you here forever. If you don't wake up soon, they'll make you their prisoner, and you won't be able to wake up!"

"I am not a prisoner here. This is my world, no one can make me do anything I don't want to do."

"That's what I thought as well. This place did come from your imagination, but you are not the one who gave it life. Tell me, was this place always so vivid in your mind? Was it always so bright and full of life, did it always feel so real? Or did that happen only recently?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He bit his lip as the beast continued.

"That's what I thought. It was the same for me. I have a special place in my mind, as well. It's not made of children's stories, but the things I keep there might as well be from fairytales. It's a place I go to sometimes when I'm at my lowest. They gave it life, made it seem real. I didn't realize it was fake until it was too late, and I became trapped.

"That's why I need you. You still have some control over what happens. You've become better at bringing fiction to life inside your head, but soon you won't have any control at all. You're the only one who can free us; the only one who can stop all this and bring us back to reality."

"Theoretically, if I did believe you, what would you have me do?"

"You would have to destroy this part of your mind. You would have to close it off and let it and everyone in it die. Then you must wake up, and never come back."

"Of course you don't want me coming back, so that you can take over and drive me mad," said Sherlock as he took a step back from Shadowheart.

"Sherlock please, don't go. You're an extraordinary little boy, but you're missing what's right in front of you. If you go to that wizard, you'll have doomed us both."

"This has been a lovely chat, but I really must be going. I'm going to find Snow White, and we're going to that wizard. We'll truly bring this place to life, and end you."

Sherlock walked out the door, then turned back to see if the monster was following him. He wasn't.

"Aren't you going to try to stop me? Hold me against my will? You're not even making any threats."

Shadowheart shook his head without looking up from his feet. "It would only make you more determined to stay with her. You're just going to have to see the truth for yourself."

Sherlock put a lot of distance between himself and the house. Once he was mostly satisfied, he sat down on a stone. He watched the sun go down, casting the sky in brilliant shades of red and orange.

He needed to find Snow, but it would have to wait until morning. As observant as he was, even he had limits, and seeing at night in the dark was one of them.

He laid down in the grass and fell asleep for nearly an hour, but then he was awake for the rest of the night. This time, his insomnia was caused by a specific thought that kept nagging at him, a thought full of confusion and doubt.

What kind of monster would let its prey go free? Perhaps it was all part of a bigger ploy to invade his mind. That was the most reasonable explanation, but it didn't sit well with him.

Not only that, but he'd warned him to stay away from Snow White and the Wizard. The same warning Snow had given him about Shadowheart. Snow White was his friend, and the only person here he could really trust. He hated the beast for planting that tiny seed of doubt in his mind. In the end he decided Snow had given him more reason to trust her than Shadowheart had, and so he would go back to her.

But there was the problem of finding her, of course. He had been paying attention to the path they'd taken to get here and knew he could find his way back, but it would take a long time, and Snow was bound to have moved on by then, looking for him. Not to mention, he was tired of all the walking; there had to be a better way to travel.

An idea came to him, an absolutely brilliant idea that he couldn't believe he hadn't thought of before. It might not work; it certainly wasn't going to be easy. But he had to try, because it was the best idea he'd ever had.

He clasped his hands together under his chin and focused all his concentration on bringing to life one of his most favorite story characters.

For hours on end he silently concentrated on one thought, until the sun rose above the trees.

A bird tweeted from its nest in a tree. "Shut up!" he yelled at it, and it didn't tweet again.

He concentrated intensely on every detail; the red scales, massive wings, sword-like teeth, deadly fire-breath, and the large, powerful tail.

It took a long time, though Sherlock couldn't be sure how long. But after gritting his teeth and putting everything he had into it, the creature finally came to be right in front of him: Smaug, the great and mighty dragon.

Now that he'd summoned him, he had a new problem: would the dragon allow himself to be ridden? He didn't expect the dragon to hurt him or try to kill him, but it was another thing entirely to expect him to just fly him around wherever he wanted.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Sherlock stepped towards him. He reached out a hand, and prepared to pull back at a moment's notice.

The dragon hissed; tendrils of smoke wafted from his nostrils. His eyes blazed hotter than his fiery breath, and he bared his razor sharp teeth in warning.

But Sherlock would not be intimidated so easily. "Smaug, magnificent dragon, you could swallow me whole. You could crush me with your tail. You could fly me up into the sky and drop me, and let me splatter on the ground. You could roast me with your fiery breath before I could even scream. You are mightier than any other creature here.

"Except, of course, for me. I created this place, and I created you. You are here because I put you here, and you will do as I command. You will let me ride on your back, and you will fly me to the Snow White, and then to the Wizard. And you will not kill anyone along the way unless I give you permission. Have I made myself clear?"

The dragon did not look happy. While the flattery had pleased him very much, the part about serving a puny little boy angered him. But he knew he had no choice in the matter, and so he resisted the urge to lift the whelp with his teeth and toss him half a mile.

The dragon lowered his head, and Sherlock took that as permission to come aboard. He situated himself between the spikes on his back. It wasn't very comfortable, but it beat walking any day.

It was then that Sherlock remembered that in the book, the dragon spoke, and was very boastful and arrogant, but here, he was keeping quiet. He figured it was because the dragon was so humiliated by the indignity of the situation that the only means of defiance left to him was to give him the silent treatment. He smirked at the thought of such a mighty beast being reduced to such childish behavior.

The dragon flapped its wings and took flight into the air and soared high above the clouds. The wind whipped Sherlock's face and blew back his dark curls. A wild shout of exhilaration burst from his chest; never had he felt so alive. He could spend the rest of his life in the air, but right now he needed to find Snow.

"Go a bit lower," he directed. A growl rumbled from deep in the dragon's chest, he but obeyed.

Sherlock scanned the ground with his eyes as they circled through the sky; Smaug was flying so fast that only someone with eyes like Sherlock's could see anything. Anyone else would have seen only a blur, but he could still make out some of the details.

Fifteen minutes passed. Then thirty. Then an hour. Both Smaug and Sherlock were growing impatient.

Then he saw it: a flash of yellow and a shiny reflection of light.

"There!" said Sherlock, relieved to be done with the search. "Land there!"

Smaug grudgingly obeyed, landing mere feet in front of Snow White. She fell over in shock at the dragon before her and screamed.

"Don't be afraid, Snow! It's me, Sherlock!"

"Sherlock?" said Snow as she stood back up, but back away from the beast. "What are you doing up there?"

"I imagined Smaug the dragon so he could give us a lift to the Wizard. We're using a fearsome dragon as a cab. Come on, I won't let him hurt you."

It took some convincing, but Snow White eventually joined Sherlock on the dragon's back. Smaug rose back into the air and took off at a blinding speed.

"At this rate, we'll be to the Wizard by noon!" said Snow as she gradually got over her fear of Smaug.

Just when things were finally starting to look up, a massive fireball flew up and hit Smaug's right wing. He fought to maintain control, but it was no use. The dragon was sent plummeting to the ground.

Sherlock and Snow held onto each other and screamed as the ground came closer and closer. The dragon crashed into a large oak tree, uprooting it and knocking it to the ground.

Sherlock was thrown from Smaug's back and landed in the dirt several feet away, headfirst. He sat up and did a quick assessment of his overall condition. He felt dazed, but other than that he was fine. Which was rather odd, considering a crash like that should have killed him. The only explanation there was was that since this place wasn't real and was only inside his head, he wouldn't really be hurt. It made sense, but his logical mind had trouble wrapping itself around the idea.

He suddenly remembered that he wasn't the only one involved in the crash. He got up and ran over to find Snow, who hadn't been tossed but was lying on the ground by Smaug. She looked very badly injured; her head was bleeding and her arm appeared to be broken. She should be dead too, but his imagination kept her alive.

"Snow, are you all right?" he asked.

She coughed, then said, "What happened? Why was Smaug knocked out of the sky?"

Sherlock turned to look at Smaug just as the beast drew its final breath. He hadn't even been alive for an entire day, and he was already dead. Sherlock didn't mourn the creature, but he would miss it.

There was no sign of what made the fireball that had killed Smaug. Someone, or something, had to have caused it, but when Sherlock looked, there was nothing.

"Can you walk?" he asked her.

"I'm not sure. Will you help me?"

He put his arm around her and helped her to her feet. She was still able to walk, but not without difficulty. It would take a lot longer to reach the Wizard now.

The walk was now even more boring, but Sherlock didn't mention it. He pictured large and complex math problems to solve to keep his mind off what he was doing. It only helped a little, not much.

After several hours, as Sherlock witnessed yet another sunset in this world, he finally saw their destination in the distance: a magnificent green palace.

They had finally reached Emerald City.


	7. The Wizard

"We're here!" said Snow breathlessly. Sherlock smiled in relief. No more boring walking.

The sight of the city strengthened Snow a little, and they made for the city as fast as her legs would allow. When they finally reached the door, Sherlock knocked on it and, to his surprise, it swung open on its own.

They went inside; the city was stunning and marvelous, but there was no one there.

"Shouldn't there be people here?" he asked Snow White.

"I would expect so, but there must be a reasonable explanation for this."

"I suppose we'll just have to ask the Wizard. If he's even here." If the Wizard wasn't in Emerald City, if they'd come all this way for nothing, to say Sherlock would be annoyed would be the understatement of the century.

They went farther in, but still there was no one. Not one person in a place that should have been overflowing with people.

They went until they came to a very extravagant door, the kind you'd expect a king to be behind. Sherlock knocked on the door, but this one didn't open on its own like the first. He found the handle and pulled. It wasn't locked, but it was very heavy. It took the two of them to open it.

They looked inside; there was no light inside, they couldn't see a thing.

"Hello?" called Sherlock. "Wizard?"

"Who has come to see the Wizard?" a powerful, booming voice demanded.

All of a sudden, the room was illuminated by a giant face that burned like fire. It scowled at them as though they had disturbed its nap. The walls were made of glass, and they reflected the face to make it look like there were dozens in the room.

"Sherlock Holmes, and my friend Snow White. We-"

"Why have you come here?!"

Sherlock felt fear creep through him, but he forced it away and said valiantly, "Snow White told me that you can show me how to bring this place to life, to make it real so that I never have to go home again. Is it true?"

"Is it true? You are asking if I have the power to grant this wish of yours?" the face shouted. "I do indeed possess this power, but you are not worthy of it. I shall not grant your wish."

"But I created this world! I created you! If anyone is worthy, it's me!"

"Leave now, or you shall perish."

"I don't think so!" Any fear he had felt vanished; the little boy ran up to the face and went behind it. He knew how it worked in the book; there was an odd little man hiding behind it, controlling the illusion to make himself seem powerful.

But there was nothing behind the face. No curtain, no controls, no odd little man. It was just the face.

"Are you satisfied?" it asked with a cruel laugh.

"This isn't right," he murmured to himself. He went back to stand before the face and said, "I won't leave until you do what I ask. Try to kill me if you want, but I won't leave willingly."

The face roared and exploded; Sherlock closed his eyes shut tightly and covered his face with his hands against the searing heat as flames spread around the room. The blast knocked him onto his back.

When he opened his eyes and uncovered his face, he saw that the fire was gone. The room was lit, but now with green tinted candles instead of the fiery face.

"Let me help you up," a kind voice said to him. He saw a hand being offered to him, but he didn't take it.

"There, there, it's all right now," said a man with silver hair and a bowtie. On his face was a gentle smile.

"What just happened?" asked Sherlock as he shakily got back to his feet.

"I'm sorry if I scared you, but I had to make sure you were worthy of my gift. Not many are."

"That was a test?"

"And you passed with flying colors." The man offered his hand again, this time to shake his hand. "I am the Wizard you've been seeking, and I will gladly grant your wish."

"You will?" said Sherlock, not quite sure what to make of all this. "But there must be some kind of catch."

"No catch. To make this place a reality, so that you never have to leave, you must do just one thing. Wait just one moment."

The Wizard produced a small black pouch and reached his hand inside. He pulled out a ruby necklace with a golden chain.

"Wear this, and you will never be forced to return home again."

The Wizard held it out to Sherlock, who took it and held it in the palm of his hand.

"This is really all I have to do to? To stay here forever? Just wear this necklace?"

The Wizard smiled. "It doesn't seem possible, does it? But I can promise you, you won't regret it."

Sherlock turned to look at Snow, who hadn't said a word this entire time. She gave him an encouraging smile.

"Okay, I'll do it," said Sherlock as he raised the chain to slip it around his neck.

"Sherlock! No!" someone shouted.

He spun around, and saw Shadowheart at the door.

"Stay away from me!" he shouted at him.

The beast looked worse than ever. His face looked like it had been hit repeatedly with a metal bat. His skin was black and looked like it was melting off his skin. He had no teeth left, and even some of his fingers were missing. The smell of him could knock you down, he made rotting corpses look pretty. He was limping badly, every movement seemed to require all his strength.

"Sherlock, whatever you do, don't put on that necklace. If you do, you'll be trapped here forever."

"I won't be trapped, I want to stay here."

"You don't realize what this place is. You're blind to the truth; you see only what you want to see. You're so observant, yet you don't see what's right in front of you."

Shadowheart reached beneath his filthy shirt and pulled a hidden chain from beneath it. It was a ruby necklace, identical to the one in his hand.

Sherlock did a double take. "How can this be?"

"I told you, I was like you. I didn't see the trap either, until it was too late. Snow White and the Wizard, you didn't create them. They invaded your mind and have been using you, manipulating you since the beginning."

"That can't be! Snow White is my friend! I trust her," said Sherlock, willing it to be true. Something else occurred to him then. "You launched the fireball at Smaug, you're the one that killed him! You were trying to kill me, weren't you?"

"I built the catapult and I launched the fireball, but it was not to hurt you. It was to slow you down, keep you from coming here. You can't die in this world, but you are dying in the real world. You're dying Sherlock, can't you feel it? Every second that passes, you come closer and closer to death. Do you know how long you've been here?"

"About three days."

"Time is an illusion here. For every day that passes, a week goes by in the real world. You've been here for three weeks."

"You're lying. I'm not listening to you anymore. I won't go back, and I won't let you destroy me!"

Sherlock was about to put the necklace on, when Shadowheart screamed, "If you don't believe me, look in a mirror! See yourself for what you really are!"

"Don't do it Sherlock, he's trying to trick you," warned Snow White.

But Sherlock had to know the truth, needed to know what the monster was talking about. Reluctantly, he walked toward one of the mirrors. Snow grabbed his hand to stop him, but he pulled away from her hold and kept going.

When he reached the mirror, he gasped in horror and stumbled backwards when he saw his reflection. At first he thought he was seeing someone else, because that couldn't be his face looking back at him. But there was no one else, it was just him.

His face was covered in sores and lesions. His hair was falling out and missing in patches. His eyes were bloodshot, and blood dripped from them like tears. He looked down at his hands and saw that they were also covered in sores. The tips of his fingers had turned black, like they were slowly dying and about to fall off.

"How can this be?" he whispered.

"Snow White and the Wizard are not of this world," explained Shadowheart. "They are called the Vale; they are parasites who feast on the thoughts and minds of others. They have always been an endangered species, but these two are the only ones left. They want to bring their species back to life, and to do that they needed the greatest minds in the universe, and they found them in you and me.

"They invaded your mind and made this place seem real. You imagined it, but they gave it life. They did this to keep you from noticing that you're being eaten from the inside out. Everything they told you about me, it's what they're doing to you. It's too late for me, but you can still survive. You just need to wake up."

"What do you mean, it's too late for you?"

"I've been here too long, much longer than you have. My name is not Shadowheart, that's the name they gave me to frighten you, because they knew that if you and I work together we can beat them."

Shadowheart fell to the floor. His entire body shook as he gasped for air.

"This place is a prison," he whispered. "You may choose not to believe it, but there really is no place like home, Sherlock."

"Wait!" cried Sherlock. But it was too late. Shadowheart stiffened, and then breathed his last breath.

Sherlock realized then that he had been telling the truth, that this whole place was a lie.

Snow White took his hand. "It's all right now. Go ahead, put on the necklace. And then we can be together forever."

He ripped his hand away and threw the necklace across the room. Her expression went from kind and gentle to furious and vicious in an instant. She grabbed him and held him in place as the Wizard picked up the necklace.

"This is your home now," she cooed, though her voice had taken on a hysterical edge that he was not familiar with. "You can live in happiness for the rest of your days, even if you don't have many left."

"We brought the Shadowheart's little paradise to life, just like we did yours," said the Wizard as he lifted the necklace to put it around his neck. "All we asked in return was your minds. Isn't that a fair trade?"

Now Sherlock was truly afraid. If they won, he'd become just like Shadowheart, a dying monster with no escape. But he wasn't done fighting yet.

He sank his teeth into Snow's arm, and she cried out in pain and released him. Sherlock ran from her and pulled the apple out of his pocket, the one she'd made him save. He reared back his arm and threw it at her, hitting her in the temple and knocking her out cold.

The Wizard chased him, rage blazing in his eyes. Sherlock ran out of the room, back into Emerald City. As he did, he pinched and slapped himself, trying to wake up. It had been so easy before, but this time it wasn't working. Even without the necklace, would he be trapped here forever?

Just as he was about to escape Emerald City, a pair of strong hands grabbed him from behind and lifted him into the air. Sherlock kicked and screamed, but he couldn't escape.

"There, there now, this will all be over soon," said the Wizard. "You should be flattered, you have one of the greatest minds the universe has ever seen. With it, you will save our kind, and you will be hailed as a hero by our children. It would selfish of you to deny us the chance to resurrect our people."

"Let me go!" he yelled.

"Such a stubborn child," tsked the Wizard. He took the necklace in his hand and made to slip it around Sherlock's neck, when he suddenly remembered what Shadowheart had said:

"_You would have to destroy this part of your mind. You would have to close it off and let it and everyone in it die. Then you must wake up, and never come back._"

Sherlock closed his eyes and focused on the story room of his mind palace. He imagined it being engulfed in flames, swallowed by floods, crumbled by earthquakes, ripped apart by tornadoes. He let the images of its destruction fill and consume his every thought, until it seemed there was nothing else.

"What's going on?" said the Wizard, momentarily pausing in what he was doing.

Sherlock didn't stop. He imagined every wall falling down, every plant wilting, every character dying. He then imagined himself stepping out of the room and closing the door on it.

"No! No, I've come too far, this can't happen!" the Wizard screeched.

Sherlock could hear the sounds of his little world crumbling and dying, but he kept going. He didn't look at the man, didn't open his eyes to see what was happening. He didn't want to.

The Wizard let out one long, final cry of defeat, and then was silenced. Sherlock no longer felt his hold on him, but felt something else. He felt like he was being pulled out of water, as though he had been drowning.

He gasped as his eyes flew open, and he was no longer in his story room. He was sitting on a long white table. He was not strapped down, but his limbs felt like lead. His head throbbed, and he felt sick to his stomach.

With some effort, he swung his legs off the table and stood on his feet. He wobbled and nearly fell over, and had to grip the table for support. He looked down and noticed that he was still in the same clothes he'd been wearing on his birthday. But his hands were no longer covered in sores and lesions, they looked as healthy as ever. He felt his face and hair, it was all just as it had been before. He breathed a sigh of relief.

On the bed next to him, he saw a man wearing a bowtie, like the Wizard had been. But this man was younger, and very sickly looking. His face was gaunt and his eyes were sunken in. Sherlock touched two fingers to his wrist; no pulse. The man was dead.

Before he could remove his fingers, however, a brilliant glowing light began emanating from the man. Sherlock let out a yell of shock as the glow seemed to burst like an explosion, knocking him down on the floor. The light was brighter than the sun, practically blinding.

Ever a curious child, Sherlock quickly got back on his feet to watch what was going on. His mouth dropped open and he gaped at the man as his face began to change. His dark hair lightened and grew a few inches and curled. His face shifted and changed, and inexplicably became younger before his very eyes. The rest of his body changed too; it became short, tiny even, until he seemed to be swallowed up by his clothing.

Just as quickly as it had appeared, the light disappeared, and Sherlock was left staring at a child no older than himself who, less than a minute ago, had been a dead man. If his eyes had been any wider, they'd have reached the moon.

The child's eyes fluttered open. "Oh, I'm alive," he said in a high, Scottish lilt. "That's good, wasn't sure regeneration would kick in this time. It's always nice to be pleasantly surprised."

Sherlock watched as the child sat up and performed an inventory of his new body, feeling his arms and legs, fingers and toes, and even his tongue, exclaiming excitedly over each part. He ruffled his hair to make sure it was still there.

After he was done with that, he turned to look at Sherlock, and a wild grin spread across his face. "Good job, kid. You had me worried there for a bit, but I knew you'd pull through in the end."

"Who are you?" asked Sherlock. He already knew exactly who he was, but he needed to hear it said before he could believe it, if he could believe it at all.

"Don't you recognize me? No wait, sorry, stupid question. I'm Shadowheart, though I prefer Doctor."

"Doctor what?"

"Just the Doct-" he grabbed the right side of his chest and his face contorted in agony. "Oh wonderful."

"What's wrong?" asked Sherlock.

"My heart's given out. I need you to help me."

"How are you still talking and sitting upright if your heart's not working?"

The Doctor laid back down on the table. His breathing was short and erratic. "You're going to have to pump it for me, like CPR."

"But I've never done CPR before!" said Sherlock, on the verge of panicking.

"No better time to learn! Quickly Sherlock, I haven't got all day."

Sherlock tentatively put his hands on the left side of his chest and began to pump. He'd done three compressions when the Doctor stopped him.

"No! That's the wrong side! The heart I'm talking about is on the right. If you pump that side you'll get that heart out of whack, too!"

"You can't have two hearts! That's impossible!"

"We'll discuss how impossible it is one you've got righty back in working order! Now pump, before I have to regenerate twice in the same ten minutes. I don't really think my body's up for that kind of thing."

Sherlock followed his order and pumped the other side, even though he had no idea what was going on. He had to do compressions for a solid minute before it finally kicked back in.

"Oh, that's so much better," said the Doctor, breathing a sigh of relief. "I hate it when my hearts give out, it really puts a damper on everything."

He sat up again and swung his legs over the edge of the table as he said, "Now, there's something I need to do, something important, what was it? It's right on the tip of my new tongue. Oh, I know! I need to take you home! Your parents are sure to be worried sick about you."

"Don't bet on it," muttered Sherlock. It was then that he noticed the two people at the other end of the room, if you could call them people. They were sitting in two seats, with several tubes connected to their heads. Their skin was like silver, and their heads had tentacles that resembled hair. They wore jumpsuits, but no shoes. Their hands and feet had seven fingers and seven toes each. Their mouths were lopsided, as though someone had twisted them. Their eyes were closed; they appeared to be sleeping.

"Those are the aliens that tried to kill us, the Vale. What are we going to do about them?"

"You trapped them when you destroyed your story world before they could leave. They didn't have to enter that way, but it was the easiest and most efficient way," the Doctor explained. "This is their ship. Once you had retreated deep enough into your mind, they kidnapped you and brought you here for convenience sake. You could kill them physically, but their minds would live on, inside my mind and yours. They can't hurt anyone else, so long as we never go back to those parts of our minds."

"Are they conscious? Do they know what's happening to them?"

"I don't know."

Sherlock felt a sudden wave of dizziness overtake him. His vision blurred and he was having trouble standing. His stomach did a flip, he felt very nauseas. He was very sleepy and just wanted to lie down and close his eyes, even if it meant sleeping on the floor of an alien ship, but he forced them to stay open.

The Doctor stood up from his table. His trousers were now so long that he had to roll them several times before he could walk without tripping. It was a good thing he had on suspenders, because they were the only things keeping his trousers from falling down. There was nothing he could do about the shoes, and so he had to go barefoot. He looked ridiculous and silly, like a child trying on his parent's clothes. It would have been humorous but for the fact that mere minutes ago those clothes had been a perfect fit, and it was almost frightening.

The Doctor swayed on his feet. He seemed to be in slightly better condition than Sherlock, but he was still pretty bad off. He came over to stand by Sherlock, even though he was having trouble standing upright. He looked very tipsy and woozy and slightly out of it.

"The regeneration's not gone quite right," he mumbled to himself. "Not that that's anything new, but it's different this time. I think I'm missing something big, Sherlock, something right under my nose that I'm not getting. What could it be?"

There was a lot Sherlock wasn't getting, but he was still too sick and too stunned by all that had happened to say anything.

"Come with me. I believe they stole my Tardis when they took me. They wouldn't know how to use it or get in, but they wouldn't let something that valuable go to waste. It should be around here somewhere."

Sherlock didn't know what he was talking about, but didn't question him. They put their arms around each other's shoulders and focused on not passing out before they could escape.

It didn't take them long to find the "Tardis," whatever that was, but he was confused when he saw it.

"A phone box? What's a phone box doing on a space ship?" he asked, on the verge of blacking out.

"It's not a phone box," said the Doctor breathlessly, that smile on his face growing wider in spite of his current physical state.

He unlocked the door, and Sherlock was shocked to see that it wasn't tiny inside, like he'd expected. The Doctor let go of Sherlock after he shut the door, and he instantly dropped to the floor. The Doctor stumbled like a drunk over to some kind of console in the center of the room and began flipping switches, twisting knobs, and pulling levers. He heard a mechanical wheezing sound, and wondered vaguely where it was coming from.

"Hey Sherlock, have you gotten taller?" asked the Doctor, just before he lost consciousness.

**End of Part 1**

_**Author's Note:**__ You may have noticed that the Doctor has joined the party (Woo hoo!) And just in time for the announcement of the twelfth Doctor. So now this story will be moving to the Sherlock/Doctor Who crossover section when I post the next chapter. If you don't want to search for it there, you can follow it and get email updates. While you're at it, leave a review and tell me what you think._

_Allonsy!_


	8. The Detective and the Doctor

**Part 2**

Sherlock awoke to a steady beeping sound. He was aware of a thin material covering his body under a thin blanket, not his own clothes. His head still ached, but it had lessened and was now a dull throb.

He opened his eyes and was immediately assaulted by a harsh, white light from above. He groaned as he shielded his eyes from the light.

"Mother! He's awake!" he heard someone say.

Mycroft had been sitting in a chair by the side of his bed, but the second Sherlock opened his eyes, he left to get their mother.

He took in his surroundings and realized he was in a hospital bed. There was a breathing tube in his nose, an IV in his arm, and a heart monitor beeping every few seconds. He should have left these things alone, but he pulled them out anyway. The heart monitor flat-lined once it was disconnected.

At the opposite end of the room was the Doctor, lying unconscious, and he too had several tubes and wires hooked up to him. The last time they had spoken, he had been too overwhelmed to ask questions, but once he awoke, he was going to hammer him for answers.

He suddenly felt a harsh slap to his cheek. He put a hand on his stinging cheek and turned and to see his mother. He could practically feel the anger radiating from her. Mycroft was standing behind her with his back to him, staring intently at the blank television as though willing it to turn on with his brain.

"Sherlock Holmes, where have you been? You've been gone for weeks, and you suddenly show up in the hospital half-dead. And without telling me? I thought you'd been kidnapped and murdered! What were you thinking? And who was that boy they found you with? What is wrong with you?!"

"So, no 'oh thank God you're awake' or 'I was so scared I'd lost you,' then?" asked Sherlock sarcastically.

She slapped him again. "I'm not playing games. I want the truth this instant, young man."

He knew that the truth in this situation would just earn him another slap, so he made up a story about how he and his friend, who liked to pretend he was a doctor, had decided to run away together (she had looked very skeptical at the word "friend"). They had bought train tickets and planned to stay with the Doctor's aunt and uncle in Cardiff, but they'd changed their minds and come back, but got food poisoning along the way, which was why they were in the hospital.

His mother didn't look very convinced, so he threw in a couple "I'm sorrys" and "It won't happen agains." She gave him a very stern lecture and graphically detailed his coming punishment in no uncertain terms, but left him alone once she had finished ranting. She didn't seem very happy that he was alive, but he could tell by the dark circles under her eyes that she had lost sleep worrying over him, which was more than he had expected.

Mycroft refused to look at him and left with his mother without saying a word. Sherlock told himself he didn't care, but secretly he wished his brother would have acknowledged him in some way. An angry glare or a punch to the face would have been preferable to the silent treatment. But at least he didn't lecture him like he normally would have.

When the two of them walked out into the hallway, Sherlock could hear them talking behind the door.

"I need your help. You must take care of him."

"I don't see why I should," replied Mycroft sharply. It took Sherlock by surprise; it was the first time in living memory that he'd heard his brother argue with their mother. "He tore our family apart, ran away, and nearly got himself killed. I can't control him anymore than you can, why should I even try? He's ruined everything, and he doesn't even care."

"You're his older brother, and I can't do this alone. I don't know what to do with him, one of these days we'll find his dead body and I really don't need that. His brain is wired wrong, none of the doctors can treat him. I can only hope that boarding school will help, but if it doesn't, you must look after him for me, Mycroft."

They were talking about him like he was a mental patient. He wanted to go out there and give them a piece of his mind, but then the Doctor began to stir. He opened his eyes and sat up and stretched his arms above his head.

"I haven't slept that long in a while," he yawned. "I hope you don't mind, but I pretended to be asleep while your mother was yelling at you. You know, it's strange, but when I tried to explain to the doctors that you were perfectly safe and that I had been taking care of you, they wouldn't take me seriously. I mean, it may have been because I was on the verge of collapsing, but they looked at me like I was crazy."

The Doctor put a hand to his throat. "Whoa. I just noticed how high my voice is. I sound like a girl. Maybe the medication they gave me makes me sound like a chipmunk."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. "Tell me, right now, what you are. You changed your face and came back from the dead; if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes I never would have believed it. You're obviously an alien, but that's not enough. Tell me what you are."

As he was saying this, the Doctor noticed all the monitors hooked up to him. His eyes went wide and he began to panic.

"Oh no, this is bad. I only meant to drop you off, I didn't mean to get checked in. This is so not good, it couldn't be any farther from good. It's my eighth regeneration all over again. I've just regenerated and I'm going to regenerate again before I can even get to know my new body. Why must hospitals exist? Are they really that important?"

"What's the matter? I don't like the hospital either, but you're freaking out. You're covered in sweat and your pupils are dilated. The heart monitor's even going crazy."

"The heart monitor is going crazy because I have more than hearts than it's used to dealing with," said the Doctor as he tore off all the wires connected to him.

"Yeah, you mentioned that. Look, just calm down, and let's talk. I have a lot of questions to ask, and you can't rightly answer them if you're having a panic attack."

"You'd be reacting the same way if you'd once been murdered in a hospital!"

The Doctor jumped out of bed and began a mad search for his clothes. Sherlock did the same as he said, "What do you mean, murdered? You mean you've died before, and transformed yourself to survive? Surely there are easier ways to cheat death. You're not making any sense at all."

"I'll explain later," said the Doctor as he found his clothes, which were far too big for him. "What on earth? Was I really that huge last time? These clothes could fit a gorilla. I can't escape in these, I'd be tripping all over myself and end up with a concussion, and that would just mean more hospital time. I need new ones pronto, but for now I guess this gown will have to do. Thank God I've got pants on underneath."

Sherlock found his own clothes, but the Doctor grabbed him by the wrist before he could put them on. "You have to help me get out of here, before they kill me again!"

Before Sherlock could protest, the Doctor yanked him out the door and into the hallway.

"I have something to say about all this!" said Sherlock, feeling frustrated.

"I bet you do!" replied the Doctor.

Before they could get very far, a doctor came and stood in their way.

"Hey now," he said to the Doctor in a gentle tone. "Where are you going? We haven't completed your diagnostics yet. You have had some very interesting results, we're still trying to figure them out. You can't leave until we're sure you're healthy."

"I'll have you know that I am a full grown man and can make my own health decisions! You can't keep me here!" declared the Doctor authoritatively.

The doctor quirked an eyebrow. "Well little man, you're not quite grown up yet, so let us take care of you for now, okay? Can you give us the names of your parents? Do you know their phone number?"

"What is going on here? I might not be from here, but I have the same rights as anyone else. I am an adult, and I will not be treated this way!" yelled the Doctor indignantly as the man took them back to their room.

"Calm down, son. Everything's going to be okay. No need to be scared, we're all here to help you."

Sherlock had never seen anyone look as offended as the Doctor did in that moment. "Son? Excuse you. I might be a wee bit shorter now, but I will not be talked down to like that! Now let me leave in peace."

The doctor looked very concerned, but said nothing. He locked them inside, and Sherlock thought he heard him mutter something about bringing in a psychiatrist.

The Doctor kicked the door in frustration, but then he began to look anxious. "Sherlock, is there something wrong with me? Everyone is treating me like a child and I don't know why."

Sherlock, who never had any qualms about delivering bad news, eloquently replied, "That's because you are one."

"No, that can't be," said the Doctor quietly. He pulled at his hair and paced around in a circle. "You must be mistaken. I mean, my face has progressively gotten younger and younger over the years, but surely I'm not_ that_ young."

"You told me to look in a mirror to see the truth, now it's your turn," said Sherlock as he folded his arms against his chest.

Tentatively, the Doctor went into the bathroom and turned on the light. As he did, Sherlock removed his gown and put on his regular clothes. The sound the Doctor made once he caught sight of himself was a weird combination of horror and joy.

He poked his head out and said, "Sherlock, I'm a ginger!"

"Good for you," said Sherlock as he rolled his eyes. He put on his shoes and watched the Doctor leap for joy at his new hair color.

He tugged at his dark red locks and jumped on the bed. "Eleven regenerations, and I finally got what I wanted. Dreams do come true!"

He quickly sobered and ran back into the bathroom, looking utterly in shock. "But I'm a kid. I thought I was a midget, and that would have been okay, but this? I look younger than you, and you're what, three?"

"Eight, actually," said Sherlock, miffed at the indignity of the Doctor assuming he was a toddler.

"Oh that's good, at least I'm not an infant. That would really cause problems."

The Doctor couldn't stop looking at himself in the mirror. The man was completely transfixed by the child staring back at him.

"I don't look that bad for a kid my age, I suppose, especially not with this hair. The eyes aren't bad either, and I've got freckles again. The chin is more appropriately sized, as well. No more Chin-Boy for me." Along with the red curls, his eyes were the color of the sea after a storm, and a few freckles dotted his nose. "But travel isn't going to be as easy anymore, not if I look like I need a babysitter. I could pass myself off as a beardless dwarf, or a misfit elf without the pointy ears…"

"Or an oompa loompa. A ginger oompa loompa," Sherlock supplied.

"Talk about an extreme makeover," said the Doctor with a grimace.

"All right, that's it. I want my questions answered now. If you don't, I'll tell the doctors you're an alien."

"Sherlock please, be reasonable," the Doctor pleaded. "You wouldn't really betray me like that, would you? Not after I helped you escape the Vale. Surely you're not that cruel."

Sherlock sighed and relented. "I won't tell. But you have to promise that you'll explain all this to me, and not just take off in your space rocket or whatever and never come back."

"It's not a rocket, but deal. But not yet, there's too much to tell you, we don't have any time. I'll do my best to explain things after we escape. If I don't get away quickly, they'll experiment on me. I'm an alien, Sherlock, an alien with two hearts that they won't be able to resist. And not just the two hearts, once they start experimenting they'll find other differences, too. I'll be on the front page of every newspaper, every doctor and scientist will want a peek at my insides. They'll never let me go, I'll become a sideshow attraction. I'll wind up dying on the operating table, and I really do not want a repeat of that incident."

The door opened, and three doctors came in.

"Which one is it?" asked one of them, a woman.

"The red-haired one. Scans show he has two hearts and a binary vascular system."

"Is that even possible?"

"We need to run some more tests. It may have been an error with the machine, after all."

The Doctor bolted for the door, but one of the doctors caught him and carried him back to the bed.

"It's all right now, son. We'll take care of you."

He put the Doctor back in bed, but he took the IV needle and jammed it in the doctor's arm. While he was distracted, the Doctor dashed out of the room.

For a nanosecond, Sherlock wondered if he should help him. Well, it would be more interesting than anything else he could be doing. As the other two doctors made to go after him, he picked up the IV stand and swung it at their heads. They stumbled back in pain and surprise, and he seized the opportunity and followed the Doctor out the door.

No one paid much attention to the two boys or tried to stop them as they ran to the lift. They were used to seeing children running away from the scary doctors and needles, and they assumed their parents would catch them. The doctors were chasing after them and yelling for someone to catch them, but by the time anyone realized what was going on, it was too late.

They managed to squeeze through the doors of the lift just as the doors were closing with two other people. Sherlock pushed the button for the first floor, and in their anxiety and impatience were practically bouncing off the walls.

Once on the first floor, they both ran outside, and didn't stop running until they were three blocks away.

"Thanks for your help," said the Doctor as they tried to catch their breath outside a cafe. "You can go back to the hospital now."

"I'm not going back there, not until you answer my questions," said Sherlock stubbornly.

"I heard the punishment your mum has in store for you, it's completely dreadful. I don't want to make it any worse than I already have."

"I don't care about my punishment, I want answers."

"So impatient. You'd think you'd never met a creature from another world before. Let's go inside this cafe and I'll tell you everything."

They went inside and found a booth that would hide them the best. A waitress came over and looked startled to see two young boys sitting together without any parental supervision, one of which was in a hospital gown.

"Do you boys need some help?" she asked.

"Oh no, we're just waiting on our parents to get here," Sherlock lied with a fake smile. "My brother was in the hospital for worms, and he was so eager to leave he forgot to put on clothes. Don't worry, our parents will bring him something to wear when they get here, which should be any minute now."

This seemed to relieve the waitress somewhat. If they had been adults, the Doctor would have been thrown out immediately due to his lack of clothing, but since they were kids the woman let it slide. "Can I get you two anything while you wait?"

"Coffee, black, two sugars," said Sherlock dismissively.

"I'll have a cappuccino with extra whipped cream, please," said the Doctor cheerily.

The waitress scribbled down their orders and left them alone.

"Worms? You have practically an endless list of medical conditions to choose from and you go with worms?"

"There are more embarrassing conditions out there than worms."

The Doctor mulled this over, and then nodded in agreement.

"I'm a Time Lord, by the way," he said all of a sudden.

"A what?"

"Time Lord. From where you're standing, I'm an alien, and I come from the planet Gallifrey. I'm a time traveler, I fly around in a blue box all through time and space. I once had a robot dog-"

He stopped when the waitress returned with two Styrofoam coffee cups.

"Is there anything else I can get you? Some biscuits, maybe?"

"I'd like a bisc-" said the Doctor, but Sherlock cut him off with, "We're fine, thanks."

The waitress nodded and left again, and the Doctor put on a pouty face. "What have you got against biscuits?"

"I don't want any more distractions."

"I'm not that easily distr- is that a squirrel wearing a sparkly top hat?"

Sherlock looked to where he was pointing and saw only a napkin dispenser. He narrowed his eyes at him.

"Monkeys always look," said the Doctor. He grinned slyly as he took a sip of his drink.

Sherlock took a sip of his too and made a face. "This isn't coffee. It's hot chocolate."

The Doctor took another sip. "Well, I do prefer hot chocolate…"

"Continue on. Don't stop again, not for anything, not even if the cafe were to fall down around us."

"Why would the cafe fall down around us? Does that happen often on Earth? Cafes falling down for no reason? Are they that fragile?"

"What I mean is that I'm not waiting any longer, I want to hear everything right now. Quit getting off on tangents before I kill you."

"Patience is a virtue, you know. Can never have too many of those."

Sherlock was becoming more and more frustrated. "Are you trying to put me in the madhouse?"

"Most of my other companions didn't feel the need to know everything about me. They liked the mystery, and didn't pester me endlessly for every little detail about every little thing about me."

"I'm not one of your old companions."

"Thank heavens for that."

Sherlock didn't say anything, but shot daggers at him with his eyes.

The Doctor took another sip and then sighed and said, "So, as I was saying… Wait a minute, why am I explaining this way? It'll take two eternities if I use words. Lean across the table."

"Why?"

"Just do it."

Sherlock leaned across the table and the Doctor did the same and put his hands on the sides of his head.

"I don't like this," said Sherlock. He did not like to be touched.

"Shh, I'm concentrating," he said as he closed his eyes. "Try not to think too much, it makes it harder to create a psychic connection."

Without any warning, an explosion of images, sounds, and memories flooded into Sherlock's mind. He saw eleven men, all of them having adventures with their companions in a police box that wasn't really a police box. He saw aliens and far off planets, he saw life being born and life being snuffed out. With every memory he saw, it all became more and more clear. He found he understood everything about the Doctor, or at least, everything he'd let him see. It was painful, but incredible at the same time.

The Doctor let go and pulled back, severing the connection. Sherlock gasped as he returned to reality.

"I am so going to regret that later, but it beats answering billions of questions any day."

"I understand now, all of it," said Sherlock, slightly dazed by it all. "But it goes against everything logical. Nothing about you makes sense."

"I know," he replied with a manic grin. "Isn't it marvelous?"

"No it's not, it just makes my head hurt."

"You'll get used to it. By the way, I've been meaning to tell you, I'm a big fan."

"Really? You look nothing like a means of keeping oneself cool."

"Blimey, you really are just as sarcastic in real life as you are in the book. Arthur captured your personality perfectly. No, I meant I admire your work."

"What are you talking about? I've only ever investigated one case, and no one even listened to my input. What work?"

"You don't know it yet, but one day you'll be the greatest detective the universe has ever known. Not until long after you die, though. While studying human culture, an alien by the name of Arthur Conan Doyle will discover you and write your story, but as a fictional series. Everyone falls in love with you and there's not a single planet that doesn't know your name. I have your book in the Tardis, I can show it to you."

"How do you know all this?"

"Time traveler, remember? There are some people the universe never forgets. Do you have any money on you?"

"What for?"

"To pay for our drinks, unless you were planning to steal them."

"Don't you have any money?"

"Do you see any pockets on me?"

"Oh, right. Hold on." Sherlock checked his pockets and found a few pounds that he'd nicked off of Mycroft when he'd been even more irritating than usual. He laid the money on the table.

"Right then. Now, I'm going to need some proper clothes. Let's go, before I catch cold in this thing."

They waited until no one was looking, then they snuck out of the shop.

"Are there any good clothing stores around here that you know of?"

Sherlock first thought of the store his mother usually took him to, where everything was extremely fancy and overpriced. He then remembered there was a thrift store nearby. He'd never been in it, but it seemed the best place to go.

They walked a block or two until they found the thrift store. Sherlock didn't like the idea of wearing someone else's old clothes, but the Doctor was thrilled to search through the racks of clothing.

"Um, I think those clothes would be kind of baggy on you," said Sherlock as the Doctor looked through the men's clothing.

The Doctor face-palmed. "I keep forgetting I have Benjamin Button disease. It'll sink in eventually, but right now I'm having a hard time wrapping my head around it."

"Join the club," muttered Sherlock as the Doctor moved to the boy's clothes.

The Doctor grabbed a high pile clothes to try on, and he made Sherlock help him carry it all into the fitting room.

"What do you think of this?" said the Doctor as he presented himself in matching polka-dotted shirt and trousers.

"Are you a doctor or a clown?"

The Doctor huffed, but went to try on the next outfit. This one consisted of a tie-dye shirt and khaki pants.

"The hippie look doesn't suit you. Or really anyone, for that matter."

The next outfit was an unholy mix of many different colors.

"Did a rainbow puke on you?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize I was dealing with the fashion police."

"It doesn't take a fashionista to tell you that those clothes have the power to make children cry."

After that, the Doctor stopped trying on the more outrageous styles and toned it down a bit, but Sherlock still didn't approve any of his choices. Not that he really cared all that much, but everything he tried on seemed to scream "look at me!" and was very embarrassing.

"Why is it so important for you to find just the right outfit, anyway? Just grab a t-shirt and jeans and have done with it. Just do something simple, like a normal bloke."

"Who are you calling normal?" asked the Doctor as he poked his head out of the fitting room to shoot him an offended look.

"I was just suggesting you try to act like one."

"I will when you do."

Sherlock did something he normally wouldn't do and stuck his tongue out at him, and the Doctor did the same back at him. He went back to trying on clothes as he said, "Every time I regenerate, I have to figure out who I am. I have to discover myself; my personality, my taste in food and clothing and music, my favorite color, my favorite animal, my sense of humor, everything. The first step is to find a look that I can mold myself around. Once I know my dress sense, the rest of it becomes a tad easier."

They spent three hours total in there, with Sherlock growing more and more impatient. When the clerk wasn't looking, he mixed up all the clothes. He put shirts in the trousers section and pants in the shoe section. He also mixed up the sizes, and pulled the tags off.

"I've made my decision!" announced the Doctor at last, and Sherlock judged his choice. He wore a leather jacket over a white shirt, black jeans, black boots, and a fedora atop his red curls.

"So you're an alien impersonating Indiana Jones?"

"Awesome, I know. And I don't want any criticism because I like it and I'm not changing, so any mean things you have to say you can keep to yourself."

"Well, it is better than anything else you've tried on." Actually, Sherlock did think it was pretty cool, but he wasn't about to admit that.

"That's the spirit. Now, let's be off."

"I don't have any money to pay for those clothes, you know."

"That's all right." The Doctor pulled out a small tool and pointed it at the security camera watching them, causing it to short out. Sherlock recognized it as the sonic screwdriver, and made a mental note to ask the Doctor for one of his own.

"You're okay with stealing from here, but not the coffee shop?"

"That waitress was a nice lady. She gave me hot chocolate when I asked for a cappuccino, not many people are thoughtful like that."

"She did it because we're kids and kids aren't supposed to drink coffee."

"Irrelevant. Besides, I've saved London more times than anyone cares to count without asking for anything in return. This is like a thank you gift. But come on, let's get back to the Tardis, I'll give you a lift back to the hospital. Tell your mum I would have killed you if you hadn't come with me, but that you escaped when I fell asleep. Or something like that. Feel free to say any bad things about me that come to mind, and maybe she won't go so hard on you with that cover story."

"Yeah, and maybe we'll all go ice-skating in hell."

They snuck out of the store, and as they did, Sherlock caught a small glimpse of the socks the Doctor had chosen. They were neon and multi-colored and almost seemed to glow. He seemed bound and determined to have at least one article of clothing that flamboyantly stood out and drew attention to itself. The Doctor truly didn't care what anyone else thought of him and dressed however he liked, and it made Sherlock smiled to himself in amusement.

The Doctor and Sherlock went back to find the Tardis, which was parked right outside the hospital.

"I don't think I'll need a ride."

"We were on the fourth floor, I could save you about five minutes."

"Well then," said Sherlock. He cleared his throat uncomfortably, he wasn't quite sure what to say. "I guess I'll be seeing you around. Or not."

"Yeah, I guess so. Unless of course, you'd, you know, want to come with me, maybe?"

"You mean, like one of your companions?"

The Doctor nodded. "I could take you anywhere you want, any place you can think of is just right around the corner. I think we make a good team, you and me. And with us being the biggest geniuses who ever lived, just think of all we could do. All the fun we could have."

"I don't think so," replied Sherlock. "This is all too much, it goes against all logic and reason. You and everything about you are completely nonsensical. Too much has happened over the past few days, I need to get back to real life. I have to go to boarding school in the fall. I hope I haven't upset you."

"No, no, it's fine," said the Doctor, trying not to look disappointed. "It's your choice, and if you don't want to go, then more power to you. But first, let me show you something."

The Doctor ran inside the Tardis and came back out holding a book and pen. The cover read _Sherlock Holmes: Consulting Detective_, by Arthur Conan Doyle. On the cover was a man wearing a deerstalker.

"I impersonated you once, dressed just like this. I wasn't very good at deducing things, though. The villain certainly wasn't amused. But anyway, will you sign my book?"

Sherlock was stunned. First of all, there was a book about him. Someone had written a book about him. Or would, in the future. Secondly, the Doctor, the greatest man in the universe from what he'd seen, admired him. The Oncoming Storm, acting like an overly-excited fanatic meeting his hero. It was too weird.

He signed the book anyway, greatly pleasing the Doctor. "I have signed copies from Charles Dickens, C.S. Lewis, J.K. Rowling, J.R.R. Tolkien, and a bunch of other authors that you've never heard of because they were never discovered, haven't existed yet, or because they're aliens. I'm putting this with them, right on top."

"You're completely mad, you know that?"

"To call me mad is to call the sky blue, or to say water is wet, or to say the Rocazil have thirty-seven mouths; it's a fact of life. I am a mad man with a box. No wait, scratch that. I am a mad _kid_ with a box. This is going to take some getting used to," said the Doctor with a heavy sigh. "You should get back to your room."

"Yeah, I should." Sherlock went back inside the hospital, leaving the Doctor to admire his book outside his ship. He couldn't help but wonder if he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

* * *

_**Author's Note:**__ So by now everyone's probably heard that Peter Capaldi will be the next Doctor (not my first choice, but I'm still looking forward to see the kind of man his Doctor will be). Obviously the Twelfth Doctor in my story is not a fifty-five year old man, but hey, now you get two versions of the same Doctor, two different paths this incarnation's life could take. How exciting!_

_Also, John Hurt's Doctor won't be in this story or even mentioned, mostly because this story is being written before the fiftieth anniversary special and we don't know really know much about him yet, and I can't write about a character I know nothing about. _

_As the story progresses, let me know what you think of the kid Doctor. Love him or hate him, I want to hear your opinions, and any suggestions you might have to improve his character, or Sherlock's, for that matter. _


	9. An Old, Pointy Hat

Several months passed, and though Sherlock thought of the Doctor and his Tardis often, he didn't see him again.

After he was punished, his mother almost seemed to forget the incident. She went back to nitpicking and nagging him about every little thing and they argued very often, but they usually didn't talk about his running away for some reason. To make up for his disappearing act, Sherlock tried to behave better and tried to keep from arguing with her, but it usually didn't work out. He wasn't made to conform to the mold, and he didn't really try.

Mycroft was a different story. He didn't treat Sherlock badly, but he didn't want anything more to do with his little brother. He didn't walk him to school or read to him or play with him anymore. He didn't completely ignore him or pretend he didn't exist, but he didn't spend any of his time on him like older brothers were supposed to. He didn't even spy on him anymore to make sure he stayed out of trouble.

Sherlock told himself this was a good thing, and that he was happier this way. But he had trouble believing it late at night when he couldn't sleep.

Mycroft knew that caring was a weakness, and his family had been the final proof. He hated his father with a passion, but even after all he had done, a small part of him still wanted him to come back home. He didn't really want to cut out Sherlock, either. But he had to distance himself from all this, make himself stronger. Sherlock wouldn't listen to him anyway, he'd let him learn his lesson on his own.

That day, it was time for Sherlock's first day of class at boarding school. The previous day he'd ridden a train to the prestigious school that Mycroft had been attending since he was his age. The only social interaction he'd had so far with his fellow students was when one of them threw a candy wrapper at the back of his head, making the others laugh.

It was going to be a very long year.

The first thing he noticed as he began to wake up, however, was that his bed didn't feel at all like it had the night before when he'd gone to sleep. In fact, it felt more like cold, hard ground. It was also very chilly, and his blanket was missing. The second thing he noticed was that there was something in his ear. Before he could take it out, someone spoke to him and shook him.

"Wake up, boy! What are ya doin' sleepin' at a time like this? Yer goin' to be late for the sortin' ceremony!"

His eyes jerked open, and he yelped when he saw who was speaking. Above him was the biggest man he'd ever seen, he was so big it was almost frightening. His face was mostly obscured by a thick, tangled black beard streaked with silver, but he had a kind smile on his face.

"What's gotten into you? And why are you sleepin'? You should be up and bouncin', this is the most excitin' event for a first year. Come on now, let's find you a boat."

"A boat?" he repeated as the big man herded him in with several other children he'd never seen before. "There's no water by the school, how can there be boats? Where are you taking me?"

It was nighttime, but how could that be? It should be morning, the sun should have been rising overhead.

The giant man chuckled. "Boy, that must have been some nap."

He brought him to a black lake with many boats. He had him climb inside with three other children. Sherlock was having a very hard time keeping the confused expression off his face.

"Everyone ready?" the giant asked. "Right then- Forward!"

The boats took off by themselves down the lake. The other children carried on a nervous and excited conversation, but Sherlock tuned it out. He was too busy trying to figure out how the boats were moving without anything propelling them forward.

_Maybe I'm dreaming_, he thought to himself. He wondered if perhaps the Vale had somehow escaped and had come back for revenge, and he was locked inside another fantasy world inside his own head. The thought was very alarming, to say the least.

In the distance, on the side of the lake, he saw a castle, and a grand one at that. He'd never seen anything like it in real life. They sailed for a while, until they came to a sort of underground harbor. A man with salt and pepper hair in a long robe was waiting for them.

"Here are the firs' years, perfessor."

"Yes, thank you Hagrid," he replied with a smile. "Good evening students, and welcome to Hogwarts. My name is Professor Longbottom, and in a few moments we will be entering the Great Hall where you will be sorted into one of four houses. Gryffindor, the brave; Ravenclaw, the wise; Hufflepuff, the just and loyal; or Slytherin, the cunning and resourceful. Each house has its own noble history, and each has its own strengths and weaknesses. When you are called, the Sorting Hat will decide where you are best suited."

He opened the double doors before them, and they were led into a large hall with four long tables, each one packed with children ranging in age from preteen to late teen.

"Form a line and follow me now," Professor Longbottom directed.

He led them down the hall, and as he did Sherlock noticed with a start that there were thousands of candles floating in midair. Not only that, but there wasn't even a ceiling, only the night sky. It was astounding and beautiful, but Sherlock was too busy trying to figure out how they'd pulled it off to notice its brilliance.

Transparent figures flew around the room, but they couldn't be what he thought they were. They just couldn't be. It was taking every ounce of willpower he had to maintain his composure and not scream for someone to please explain what was going on.

He moved to the front and tugged on the professor's robe. "What is this place? How are the candles floating? What are those things that look like ghosts? Is this all some kind of mad prank?"

The professor smiled and patted his head. "You muggle-borns have it rough every year, don't you? Don't worry, you'll get used to it sooner or later."

"Muggle-born? I'm from London, and I've never heard of a place called Muggle, anyway."

"Muggles aren't a place, they're people. Didn't they explain this to you already, Mudblood?" sneered a boy from behind him.

"I won't have that kind of language," said the professor sternly.

"What's a mudblood?" asked Sherlock. "And no, no one has explained anything to me."

"It means you've got dirty blood, because you haven't got any proper magic in your blood."

"My blood is not dirty." He'd been called just about every name in the book, but this was a first. "And there's no such thing as magic either, didn't your parents ever tell you? I bet you still believe in Father Christmas and the Tooth Fairy, as well."

The boy gave him a funny look. "If you don't believe in magic, then what the hell are you doing here?"

Sherlock's ears reddened slightly. "I didn't want to be here, my mum forced me. I was led to believe it was a normal school, but clearly it's for freaks. My brother goes here, but he never warned me about anything like this. What is this place, anyway?"

"Hogwarts, short-bus," replied the boy. "I think you got on the wrong train, pal."

"Hogwarts? What a ridiculous name for a school," he grumbled to himself.

No one said anything else after that. Sherlock wondered what was really going on here. When he had arrived the night before, it had looked like any other boarding school, nothing particularly special about it, and it certainly had not been a castle. It also wasn't called Hogwarts. And why hadn't Mycroft warned him about any of this?

Another unsettling thought occurred to him then. What if his mother had sent him here on purpose? What if this was some kind of correctional school, or an asylum, a place for freaks and lunatics. His mother had said she couldn't handle him, maybe this was her solution for her little problem child. From what he'd seen so far, it didn't seem like a sanitarium or a prison, but maybe it was some kind of magic trick to make the crazy children feel comfortable staying here, away from society, so they wouldn't panic or try to run away.

What was also troubling was how everyone else seemed to know exactly what was going on, and even when they made attempt to explain it to him he still didn't understand. It was like being left out of an inside joke, only this was far worse.

Normally in times like these he had his high intelligence in his arsenal of weapons, but here it did him little good. What on earth were muggles? It was obviously an offensive insult, but how could he counter it if he didn't know what it meant? And how were they pulling off all these illusions and tricks? There had to be some kind of explanation like smoke and mirrors, and even though he was usually very good at pointing out the strings attached, for the life of him, he couldn't figure out how they were making these things happen. He felt little and stupid, which made him feel weak, exposed, and vulnerable, things he was not used to feeling. If he didn't have facts and knowledge on his side, what did he have?

Perhaps this was all part of her punishment, a way to scare him into behaving. Had she sent Mycroft here, as well? No, Mycroft was too perfect to be locked away in a whacky shack. How long would he be trapped here, and what was waiting for him beyond this hall? He felt a powerful urge to make a run for it, but even he had to concede that it was hopeless. He was surrounded by a swarm of people on all sides, they'd catch him before he could take two steps. And where would he have gone, anyway? He was stuck here until he could formulate a plan of escape.

They reached the end of the hall, and were made to stand before a long table where many adults were sitting. In the center was a woman with silver hair tied in a bun.

It was then that he noticed a chair before them, with an ancient-looking pointy hat. The hat twitched, and then burst into a song. Sherlock could only stare at it with his mouth hanging open the entire time, until its song ended.

After it had finished singing, the entire hall applauded it. Professor Longbottom then picked it up and called a name from a scroll.

"Potter, Lily." The girl, who had long, dark red hair, went to sit in the chair. She smiled eagerly as the professor put the hat on her head, which was much too large. After a moment, it called out, "Gryffindor!"

The girl was applauded, and she went to sit at the table belonging to Gryffindor.

The professor continued to call out names until everyone was sorted, except for him. He felt the eyes of every person in the hall looking at him, and he felt like a bug under a microscope.

Professor Longbottom looked down at him quizzically. He double-checked the list and said, "There are no more names on the list. Who are you?"

"I think there's been some kind of mistake," said Sherlock, his confusion and nervousness growing with each passing second. If his name wasn't on the list, then what in the world was he doing here?

"Wrong! There's been no mistake, just an eensy-weensy misunderstanding."

Sherlock turned around and saw one other student whose name was also not on the list. The Doctor. He wanted to say something, but not here, not yet. He wasn't sure if he should feel relieved, or angry with him.

"Who are your parents, and why aren't either of you on the list?" asked the professor.

The Doctor pulled a document out of his pocket and handed it to Professor Longbottom. "I'm so sorry about all this. Our parents were going to teach us at home, but changed their minds at the last possible second. I'm John, no wait, Johnny Smi- Holmes. Yes, Johnny Holmes, that's definitely my name. And this is my brother, Sherlock. You can call him Sherly if you like."

This was an extremely flimsy story, and everyone looked suspicious. The professor studied the document very closely. The Doctor only made it worse by adding, "That's real, obviously. I mean, who would pretend to be a wizard, huh? That's just nutty."

Sherlock wanted to kick the Doctor for that last part (and for calling him Sherly), but whatever was written on that document must have saved them, because the professor didn't question him any further.

"All right then. Johnny Holmes, come here so you can be sorted."

The Doctor eagerly sat down in the chair, his eyes sparkling with anticipation. Professor Longbottom placed the hat on his head, and it went down past his ears and over his eyes. For the first time that night, the hat's face looked confused, like he didn't know what to do with the mind he'd been presented with. Sherlock had seen his mind, and wasn't surprised by this reaction.

While it had taken mere seconds for everyone else, it took nearly a whole minute for the hat to come to a decision this time. "Gryffindor!"

The Doctor beamed in delight and ran to join his fellow Gryffindors.

"Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock went to take his place underneath the hat. He couldn't see a thing, but he heard a small voice in his ear.

"I can see you don't belong here," it said in an old, wise voice, and he nearly jumped a mile. He hadn't expected it to actually talk to him. "You and that other boy are one hundred percent muggle, you're not related, and you're not even old enough to be enrolled. I don't know how you got in, there's no precedent for this. However, I won't spill your secret."

Sherlock was relieved at this, but he was more annoyed by the muggle insult. The next person to call him that would get a kick in the shin. It would be pretty hard to kick a hat in the shin, though.

"You have a mind that would make Rowena Ravenclaw herself blush. Ravenclaw is most likely where you should go, a mind like yours comes along once in a lifetime. There is little that you fear, but it is not courage so much as a reckless need to prove to the world your worth and superiority, so Gryffindor is not for you. You are very cunning and resourceful; you have a potential for greatness that Slytherin would help grow. But yes, Ravenclaw is where you belong, without a doubt."

_Put me in Slytherin_, he thought to himself. He already knew he was brilliant, he didn't need a hat to tell him that. But Slytherin sounded far more interesting.

"Slytherin, eh? Another boy once asked me to do the opposite. But if that is what you wish, then by all means. Slytherin!" it announced out loud.

He was applauded as he took his seat with the other Slytherins. He received several pats on the back, and for one fleeting moment, Sherlock almost felt like he belonged. He finally began to let himself relax.

A magic school was much better than a correctional school, and more preferable than an alien-controlled dream. You didn't have to be a genius to see that.

The headmistress (McGonagall was her name) gave a brief speech laying out the rules and welcoming the students, and then they were served dinner, which appeared on the table out of nowhere. Everyone began digging in as though they'd been starved. It looked so good, and he was feeling so relieved, that Sherlock ate almost a half plate of food.

After dinner they sang the school song, and then they were instructed to follow the prefects to their dorms. As he was following his fellow Slytherins, Sherlock felt someone grab his arm and pull him out of line. He followed the Doctor and they snuck away to-

"A girl's bathroom? Of all the places you could have chosen, you go for a girl's bathroom?"

"No one uses this one because of the ghost. Oh, and the Chamber of Secrets. This bathroom is the secret entrance to what used to be a monster's dojo, but not anymore. So yeah, best place to talk privately."

Sherlock didn't say it, but he was secretly glad and excited to see the Doctor again. The last several months had been lonely ones, even more so than usual for him. It was nice to see his friend again.

Suddenly, a female ghost flew out of one of the faucets.

"More boys in the girl's bathroom? You're not making a polyjuice potion, are you? I ought to tell on you," she said as she wagged her finger at them.

"Hello, Myrtle!" said the Doctor jovially. "My, don't you look stunning in this light. Why, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were still alive!"

Myrtle blushed, or came as close to blushing as a phantom could.

"You don't mean that."

"Of course I do! Sherlock, doesn't she look dazzling?"

"Oh yes," agreed Sherlock, to get rid of her. "Very not-dead."

Myrtle giggled. "Well, you two are probably doing something important. I'll let you get back to it."

"See you later, Myrtle," said the Doctor.

Once Myrtle had flown down a toilet, Sherlock asked, "What was that about?"

"That was Moaning Myrtle. I try to be nice to her because no one else will. And it gets her to leave quicker. She was a student here, until she was murdered over half a century ago, right here in this bathroom."

"Can I investigate her murder? Were there any clues?" asked Sherlock eagerly.

The Doctor shook his head. "Her murder was solved over twenty years ago by three other students. Sorry about that."

"Bollocks," said Sherlock, a bit let down. He got over it quickly and said, "So everything here is powered by…"

"Magic. You're in a wizarding school, Sherlock. Oh, the things you'll see here, it's so wonderfully brilliant."

He really should have known that the Doctor was responsible, but he hadn't expected to ever see him again. Even though he was relieved and happy to see him, he was sort of miffed at him for yanking him out of his own school without his permission and plunking him down in a school that might as well have been for aliens. Maybe it was, after all, technically no one had said these people were human.

"Are these people aliens? Are they giant slugs disguised in human skin or something?"

"They're just as human as you are. Well, most of them. But even the ones that aren't a hundred present human aren't aliens. And why would that be a bad thing? I'm alien to you, and I'd say I'm pretty cool. I'm sure there's at least one other person out there in the universe who agrees with me."

Sherlock just shook his head. "I thought I told you I didn't want to travel with you."

"What I heard was, "I have to get back to real life, I have to go to boarding school." Well, this is a boarding school, but a bit more magical than yours. It's for wizards and witches."

"Of which we are neither."

"That's why we're using perception filters. That thing in your ear? It makes you look eleven, and when everyone else is using magic, no one will notice that you're not. It even makes it look like you're wearing school robes, isn't that neat?"

"So, were you just flying around in your ship for a few months, and then thought to yourself, 'You know what, I think I'll kidnap Sherlock and we'll go to a magic show together.' What's next, a clown school?"

"For you it's been months. For me, less than twenty-four hours. I took a short cut."

"Don't you think it's a bit ironic? We barely escaped a wizard in my head and now you've forced me into a wizard school."

"Don't worry, these are nice wizards. Well, most of them. Point is, none of them have any reason to hurt you. Unless you go and give them a reason. Please don't give them a reason."

"I didn't want to come here, to do any of this."

"I know, but it's just for one more day. By this time tomorrow, we'll have left the school with the excuse that our parents changed their minds about letting us come here. After that, no one will ever think of us again.

"I know you didn't want to, but I just couldn't resist. I had to show you something, to make sure you understood exactly what you were missing. Magic schools are just the beginning, you can't imagine what else there is out there to see. Not even I have seen it all, and I likely never will.

"And for the cherry on top of this little adventure, tomorrow we'll be in Defense Against the Dark Arts class, which is the most exciting class here. Actually, Hufflepuffs have it tomorrow, so we'll have to sneak in."

"By the way, what did you show the professor to convince him to let us in?"

The Doctor produced the same document from earlier. "What do you see?"

Sherlock looked at it hard. He must be missing something, it didn't add up. "I don't see anything. It's just a blank piece of paper. Is this more magic?"

"Really?" the Doctor asked as he flipped it around to look at it. "It was supposed to show you a note from our parents explaining the whole thing. It was then supposed to change to show a letter of recommendation from a very important wizard that no one's ever heard of."

"How does it work? And why doesn't it work on me?"

"It's because your brain's too big for its own good. Great minds tend to be immune from psychic paper."

Sherlock looked out the window, and saw mountains in the distance that he recognized from a book he'd once read. It appeared they were somewhere in Scotland. How had no one discovered this place? How did wizards keep their secret?

"How does the rest of the world not know about this?" he asked aloud.

"They're wizards, Sherlock. They know how to hide. They have enchantments that keep people from noticing this place. If a muggle were to come here, they'd see only ruins and several warnings of danger. I've got no magic blood in me, but I'm close enough that I can see through their disguises. You're inside now, so you can see everything too. I don't think any muggles besides the two of us have ever seen this place, it's a once in a lifetime opportunity."

"I'm missing my own classes."

"Since when do you care about school?"

"Since never. But things have been pretty lousy in my family recently, which is kind of my fault, and so I thought I'd put in a bit more effort into my studies than usual. As if I needed it. But still."

"You have no reason to worry. You're not missing your classes, not a single one. What part of time machine isn't sinking in? I can take you back to school whenever you want, like nothing happened."

"Tomorrow, after class, you will take me back home and not bother me again. Got it?"

"Got it."

* * *

The Doctor helped Sherlock find the Slytherin dorms. They had left before the passwords were given, so they were both locked out. But the Doctor knew many magic words and phrases, and Sherlock used his deductive abilities to figure out the password to the Slytherin common room (Serpensortia, the spell for conjuring snakes).

The Doctor snuck inside with Sherlock and, after they'd found his dorm, hid under his bed. Sherlock didn't even try to sleep, but instead pondered all the amazing and impossible things he'd seen that night, and the words of the Sorting Hat.

* * *

The next morning, the two boys waited until the other Slytherins had left the dorm before leaving. They went to breakfast and sat down at their house's tables. The Doctor had a piece of cinnamon toast, but Sherlock was still overly satisfied from the previous night's meal.

Owls flew in and dropped off various pieces of mail as the hall was flooded with conversation. All the noise plus all the magical stuff equaled another headache for Sherlock. He ended up leaving breakfast early, and when the Doctor saw him he followed after him.

"I want to visit the Forbidden Forest," announced Sherlock.

"Why?" asked the Doctor.

"The Headmistress said it was dangerous and forbidden. Of course I want to go there."

"It's forbidden for a reason, you know."

"Exactly. Did you have a point?"

"Seeing as how neither of us have any magic, and we have class in less than ten minutes, I must advise against it. Besides, I've been in there before. Most of the time, the only creatures you see are the ones that are dangerous but not very interesting. The really cool ones don't usually show themselves, not unless you're very lucky."

"You've been in there before? It's not fair for you to get to go and not me."

"Another time, okay? Time Lord's honor, cross both my hearts," said the Doctor as he crossed his hearts. "But for now we have got to go to class. I heard there's a special speaker today, a major celebrity that I haven't seen in a long time."

"Who is it?" asked Sherlock, but the Doctor didn't answer.

The Doctor led the way to the classroom, where the first-year Hufflepuffs were anxiously waiting. Before they went inside, the Doctor adjusted their perception filters so that they appeared to be Hufflepuffs.

They found a couple seats near the back where they wouldn't be heard.

"So you've been here before," said Sherlock in a low whisper. "But not as a student." It wasn't a question.

"Yes indeedy-do. I was the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher for a whole year during my tenth incarnation. It took an insane amount of perception filtering, optical illusions, and special effects, but I was able to pass off as a pretty decent wizard. My students learned a lot that year. Most of them liked me, I think. I was forced to end at the end of the year after my tricks quit working while I was demonstrating a new spell I'd invented in front of the Great Hall. Everyone realized that I couldn't do magic, and so to make the situation less awkward for everyone, I did what anyone else would do. I jumped out the window, ran back to my Tardis, and never came back. Not in that body, anyway."

"Did you teach the celebrity you were talking about?"

The Doctor shook his head. "His entire childhood and teenage years was one big fixed point in time, I didn't dare even speak to him. But I did teach his younger son, who was my favorite student. They had me over for dinner once, which is when I met his father."

"What is he famous for? Is he some kind of wizard model? Wizard child actor?"

The Doctor chuckled, but then his face turned very serious. "He defeated the darkest wizard in history. People were so afraid of him they wouldn't even speak his name. He defeated him when he was only a baby, and then he beat him once and for all when he was seventeen. It's been twenty-one years since then. He's an Auror now, which is basically a wizard cop. He comes sometimes to the school to lecture."

"How could he have beaten him when he was only a baby?"

"You know what, instead of telling you about it, I'll let you read it. In a few years' time, a witch by the name of Rita Skeeter will change her name and sell the story to the muggle world as a fictional series, kind of like what Arthur does with your story. It's really quite good, the seventh made me cry."

Before either could say anymore, the door opened and in walked a man with unruly, jet black hair. He wore glasses, and on his forehead was a lightning scar.

"Good morning, children," he greeted them. No one except the Doctor said good morning back; the other students were too awestruck to form words, and Sherlock didn't care.

"My name is Harry Potter, and if you'll have me, I'd like to speak with you today."

He paused a moment, then continued. "Why are you all here today?"

No one knew what to answer. Was this a trick question?

"You're all here to learn how to protect yourselves. Many people think that, after the battle here at Hogwarts over twenty years ago, they have nothing to fear. But it's that very mindset that can get you into deep trouble.

"Now, don't think that I'm trying to scare you. I assure you that is not my intention. My intention is to help you understand how important it is that you work hard to learn all that you can so that you are prepared.

"How might you go about disarming your opponent in a duel?"

One boy raised his hand. "Ex-Expelliarmus?"

"Correct. Now, take out your wand."

The boy did as he was told, and Harry used the spell on him. The wand went flying out of the boy's hand. When he went to retrieve it, Harry stopped him.

"Accio wand." As if an invisible entity were doing it, the wand zoomed back into his hand. He then handed it back to the boy.

"I need a volunteer. Is anyone interested?" asked Harry.

Every hand in the room shot up, including Sherlock's. He didn't understand it, but he wanted to see more of it up close.

"You there, in the back," said Harry as he pointed at Sherlock.

"Lucky," said the Doctor as he clapped him on the back.

Sherlock strode to the front of the room and stood before Harry.

"I'm going to set you on fire."

"Pardon?"

"I hope that's okay with you."

"Now hold on a moment-"

Before he could finish his sentence, Harry waved his wand over Sherlock's head, and the boy burst into flames. Several of the students screamed in horror.

Sherlock was sure he was going to die, and couldn't believe that the hero of the wizarding world would murder student in front of an entire classroom packed with children. Or maybe this was normal in the wizarding world. How would he know?

But then he noticed that he wasn't in any pain. He looked down at his hands and his clothes; they were on fire, but they weren't burning. In fact, instead of burning him, the fire was _tickling_ him.

Sherlock laughed, partly from the tickling but mostly with relief. Harry waved his wand and the fire disappeared, and no part of Sherlock was harmed.

"You're very brave," Harry said to Sherlock as he shook his hand.

"You're completely mad," said Sherlock, though with a smile on his face.

Sherlock went back to his seat and the Doctor high-fived him.

"Now you'll forever be known as the Boy Harry Potter set on Fire."

"Now, can anyone tell me what spell you would use against a dementor?"

No one knew the answer. Sherlock was sure the Doctor knew but was making an effort to keep from blurting out the answers. He didn't even know what a dementor was, and he hated not knowing. He would definitely have to read those books when they were eventually written.

Harry raised his wand and said, "Expecto Patronum!"

Sherlock's eyes went wide as a great white light sprung forth out the little stick. The light took the shape of a stag and pranced around the room. After it had circled the class a few times, leaping off the heads of the students, it faded into the air. The class burst into applause, with Sherlock right along with them.

"It's spells like these that may come in handy later in life. The world is never going to be a perfect place, so the more you know, the more spells you have at your disposal, the better off you'll be. Never let anyone take away your right to defend yourself."

Harry lectured a while longer, but then spent the rest of the time having each child tell him their names and a bit about themselves. He told them, "I want to know your names, because you might just do something great someday."

After the show, no one was nervous anymore and they were all eager to speak up. Whenever someone asked him to tell them about his battles with the Dark Lord, he would politely turn them down.

Sherlock read his body language, and could tell that Harry genuinely was interested in each child. From the look in his eyes, he could tell that the man had lost many people he'd loved, and so he didn't turn the children away. He was also very modest; the show of spells implied he was a show-off, but he could see that he didn't like talking about himself. Everyone considered him a hero, but he had just done what was necessary. He didn't see himself as the hero everyone else saw.

After class ended, Sherlock and the Doctor skipped the other classes they were supposed to have attended with their houses. They went back to the Tardis, which was left outside Hogwarts, in Hogsmeade.

Sherlock had been practically half dead the last time he'd been in the Tardis, and hadn't gotten a good look at it. But now he took everything in.

The Doctor smiled in anticipation of Sherlock's reaction. "Well, what do you think?"

"I imagined it would be bigger than this, and more advanced," replied Sherlock with a shrug. He wasn't about to let the Doctor see how much it amazed him. "I guess it's all right."

The Doctor's face fell into a disappointed pout. "Just all right? What's the matter with you? My ship can go anywhere in all time and space. She's a living consciousness, unlike any other ship there ever was. She's infinite, yet she fits inside a tiny police box, and you think she's _just all right_?"

"But it can't be alive," said Sherlock.

"She's a she, thank you very much. And of course she's alive, she's just as alive, if not more so, than you or me. And she has a name."

"What is her name, then?"

The Doctor's ears turned scarlet and he said, "I'm keeping that to myself."

"Both your names are secret. You call yourself Doctor, so is she the Nurse?"

The Doctor's expression became highly offended. "Oh, you're hilarious. Please, continue to mock my ship while you're standing inside her. Just know that she can "accidentally" drop you while we're travelling through the time vortex."

"Why do you keep both your names secret?" asked Sherlock curiously.

"Her name is Sexy, okay?" said the Doctor exasperatedly.

"Oh, I see. Well, if that's the case, I don't think I want to know your real name after all. I understand why you keep it hidden."

The redness in the Doctor's ears spread to his entire face. "It's not like that at all! I'm actually not sure what her name is, Sexy is just a nickname I gave her. She calls me her Thief."

"She speaks to you? How? And why does she call you Thief?"

"Because I stole her. And I'm not even going to try to explain how we spoke, it's far too long a story for right now."

There was an awkward pause, then the Doctor cleared his throat and said, "I guess I'd better take you home now." He began fiddling with the control panel as Sherlock stood by the door.

"Actually, I was thinking, maybe just one more adventure before I go back home," said Sherlock sheepishly, hating to admit he was wrong.

As insane as this all was, he couldn't resist its allure anymore. He wanted to see everything, to do everything, to know everything. But he also wanted someone to talk to.

"I don't know if I want you anymore," said the Doctor without turning to look at him.

"If you're going to kidnap me, you have to pay the price."

"I thought you had to go to boarding school."

"You're sure you can get me back in time for class?"

"Honey, I can get you back in time to go to class with Mycroft when he was your age. You can go to class with your great-great-great-great grandfather if you so choose. Seriously, does "time machine" just not compute in that weird head of yours?"

"It looks like you could really use someone like me. After all, one of us has to be the adult here."

"Excuse me? Who's the 1,379 and a half year old alien here?"

"And there's research I can do, so much for me to study."

"Just say, 'I want to come because this ship is cool and you're cool and I want to have fun.' I'm not taking you anywhere until you admit it."

"I'll agree with the last one."

"I'll take it." The Doctor turned around with a smile. "So Sherlock, amateur time and space traveler, the entire universe waits just outside those doors. You want to ride a dinosaur? Just say the word. You want to meet your parents, Adam and Eve? A jump, skip, and a hop away. You want to prank your past self? You got it. You want to name the stars? Your wish is my command. You want to see the end of the world? It shall be done. You want to mold history in your image? Well, we can't really do that last one, but you get the point. The universe is our oyster. Where do you want to go first?"

Sherlock didn't have to think about it. With an eager grin, he said, "Take me to a ship on the high seas. We're going from wizards to pirates."

"Pirates, it is then!" said the Doctor excitedly as he flipped more switches.

And that's how the little detective and the little doctor became friends.

* * *

_**Author's Note:**__ I have a request for all you artists out there. I can't draw to save my life, but I would love so much to see a drawing of kid Sherlock and kid Doctor together. If you're interested, shoot me a private message. Thanks guys._


	10. The Scarlet Demon

After they landed, before they left the ship, the Doctor took Sherlock to the wardrobe on the Tardis. The wardrobe was bigger than a small house, and stuffed with the oddest assortment of clothing Sherlock had ever seen.

The Doctor threw around piles of clothes until he found what he was looking for. He handed him some old raggedy clothes and found some for himself. They were made for adults and much too big to fit them, so they had to cut them down to size. They didn't include eye patches of peg-legs or anything of that sort, but they were still very pirate-y.

"Hey Sherlock, I think I left my yo-yo in the swimming pool, would you mind fetching it for me?"

"What do you need a yo-yo for?"

"It's very important."

"If you say so."

Sherlock took off down the hall. He was still working on exploring the rooms and it was still very easy to lose your way, but fortunately he had been to the swimming pool already and knew where to find it.

He expected the yo-yo to actually be in the pool, but it was dangling from the highest diving board for some reason. He climbed the ladder to retrieve it.

When he got back to the console room, he found the Doctor rubbing his head and scrunching his eyes, whether because he was concentrating hard on something or because his head hurt, Sherlock wasn't sure. He dismissed it and held out the yo-yo.

"Here it is. Are you going to attach it to the console as a new control or something?"

The Doctor opened his eyes and gave him a funny look. "Why on earth would I want to do that? This yo-yo is to keep me entertained in case I get bored."

"Oh, well as long as you're prepared for any emergency," he replied sarcastically.

On their way to the door, Sherlock passed by what looked like a compass attached to the console. It was spinning in a circle.

"Why doesn't this compass point north?" he asked.

"Because I don't want to go north," said the Doctor, as though this should have been obvious. "Now Sherlock, I feel I should warn you. Pirates don't actually say things like, "Yo-ho-ho!" or Shiver me timbers!" or "Arrrgh!" I learned that the hard way; it was very embarrassing and disappointing."

"That is a shame."

They opened the door to bright sunlight. They both felt the floor moving back and forth, so the ship they were on was already sailing.

Sherlock ran to the edge and looked out over the water. No land in sight, only the shimmering, deep blue sea and the never ending sky. The salty smell of the air was intoxicating; he'd never been to the ocean before, all he knew he'd read about in books. He could hardly believe his eyes; this was even better than the magic school.

"This is absolutely fantastic," he said in awe, a delighted and eager smile spreading across his face without him even realizing it. He hadn't been this excited about anything in years.

"Oi! Sherlock! No one's up here but us," said the Doctor.

"What do you think happened to them?"

"Oh, I'm sure it's nothing. I can tell by the smell of the air there was a storm last night, they're probably below deck making sure their valuables survived. It's a small ship, so there can't be too many crew members."

Sherlock noticed the helm and dashed over to it. He put his hands on the wheel and resisted the urge to spin it wildly. Gently, he veered to the right a bit, careful to not alter their course too much for fear of being caught. Or at least, being caught too soon.

"Can I have a turn?" asked the Doctor as he ran up to his side.

"You want to steer something, get back in the Tardis. This is my ship."

"Please, your ship? I bet you don't even know her name."

"Do you?"

The Doctor opened his mouth, then closed it again. He then ran over to the side of the ship and hopped over the side. He held onto the edge by just his fingertips for a few moments, then pulled himself back up.

"She's the _Rising Sun_," announced the Doctor proudly.

"That's not a very good name."

"I know. I prefer Sexy."

"A pirate ship has to be intimidating. It has to strike fear into the hearts of all who hear it. I'm renaming her. Her name is now… _Silent Revenge_."

"Seriously?" the Doctor snorted. "That's what you come up with?"

"Think about it. Revenge is best when it's silent, because then you don't see it coming until it's too late."

"Whatever, kid."

"And stop calling me that. I don't care how incredibly ancient and decrepit you are, as long as you look like a kid, you are just as much a kid as I am."

"Well, someone's being overly sensitive."

"I am not sensitive."

"Ain't that the truth."

Sherlock was about to fire back a retort when a short man in a torn striped shirt suddenly ran up on deck and barreled right into him, knocking him flat on his back.

"Oi! What are you doing, gettin' in my way?"

"Do you always run with your eyes closed?"

The man stood back up, and Sherlock refused the Doctor when he offered to help him get back to his feet.

"I don't remember seein' you lads before, I think we 'ave ourselves a pair of stowaways!"

Two other men joined them. They looked like twins, except one was much taller than the other. The taller man's arm was wrapped in filthy bandages.

"What was that, Marty?" one of them asked. "You say we've got stowaways?"

"See for yerself."

"Blimey, look at that one, Hector," said one of the twins, pointing at the Doctor. "Look at that mess of red hair. That's bad luck."

"You know Bill, I'll bet it was his fault that storm nearly sank us last night!"

"Gingers aren't devils. They're just different, sexy, awesome people," replied the Doctor as he crossed his arms against his chest.

"Better go get the captain. Maybe he'll let us throw 'em overboard. After a right good lashing, that is," said Bill.

"I could use a bit of entertainment, meself," replied Hector with a snide grin.

Marty ran to get the captain while Hector and Bill grabbed the two boys and held them in place. They struggled and tried to get free, but they were no match for their pirate captors.

A moment later, Marty returned with five other people. In all, there were eight pirates. Six men, two women.

"Captain Carlisle, look what we got 'ere," said Hector.

A man who must have been the captain stepped forward. His hair and beard were both blonde, and on his head he wore a black tricorn hat made of faded leather that had been scorched by the sun and beaten by harsh sea winds. He looked down at the two of them sternly.

"What have ye to say for yerselves?" he asked them gruffly.

"We just wanted to be pirates, we've done nothing wrong," said Sherlock as he defiantly met his eyes. In any other situation, tears might generate compassion, but not aboard a ship of thieves. No, he had to act like he belonged here, show no fear. And really, he had no fear to show.

"Are you going to make us walk the plank?" asked the Doctor curiously. "If it means anything, I've done it before."

"This boy has stolen hellfire. I should have ye cast into the sea, but that's not how you deal with your kind. You'll be put in the brig, but first, a few lashings to entertain the crew. Normally it would be forty, but I'll just keep going till me arm gets tired."

The Doctor's eyes widened and he tried to run, but a big, burly man grabbed him and tied his hands to the mast. He ripped open his shirt, exposing his bare back, while Marty ran to fetch the whip.

He handed the whip to the captain. Sherlock tried to go to his friend, but the big man grabbed him and held him in place.

Carlisle cracked the whip. He raised it high above his head, then brought it down, cutting open the Doctor's back. He bit his lip to keep from screaming.

"Let him go!" screamed Sherlock. "He's done nothing to you, he doesn't deserve this! Let him go!"

The lashings continued, leaving long gashes and streaks of blood down his back. A puddle of blood was forming at his feet. The Doctor gritted his teeth and his body trembled, but he kept quiet.

Sherlock was disgusted by the way they all watched, unashamedly amused. This was a different time, he knew that, and they truly believed he was some kind of demon. But he was still just a child, as far as they knew, and they should have felt some level of guilt or remorse. The only one who showed any compassion whatsoever was a young girl by the captain, who winced every time the whip fell, but she only stood there and watched.

The whip fell again, now striking so deep it was stripping flesh from bone. The Doctor's eyes closed; he was beginning to black out from the pain.

Sherlock couldn't stand it anymore. He noticed the man's grip on him had loosened, probably

because he was enjoying the pain of the "demon" so much. He took advantage of this and slipped free of his grip. Before the man realized what was going on, he dropped to the ground and ran at the captain. He grabbed the whip before he could use it again and try to pull it out of his grasp, but of course it was no use. Carlisle pushed Sherlock to the ground and whipped him across the neck. Blinding, searing pain surged through his neck, and he couldn't hold back the scream of pain that escaped him. He held his throat with his hands as if he were choking; he could feel blood oozing out of the gash it left. It brought back unpleasant memories of Rodney's attack.

The blow had dazed him a bit, but he shook his head and ran at the captain again, too stubborn to give up even though it was embarrassingly obvious he couldn't win this battle. Carlisle looked down at him coldly.

"You're very stupid, you know that, laddie?"

"I can't just let you tear the skin off my friend's back. Besides, he's my ride out of here."

Carlisle considered him for a moment. He then said, "Lock the scarlet demon in the brig, and when we next make port, we'll have 'em burned."

Sherlock looked to see if the Doctor was at all concerned about their plans for him, but he just shrugged his shoulders and rolled his eyes, as if he were thinking to himself, _Again?_

Bill untied him and threw him roughly over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He carried him below deck, but he didn't protest.

"Now, as for you," said Captain Carlisle, glaring at Sherlock. He just gave him a look that said, _Bring it on_.

"What's your name, lad?"

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

"Well Sherlock, I could have ye thrown overboard and I wouldn't lose any sleep over it. However, I consider myself to be a merciful man, and so I'll let ya stay. But ye'll be scrubbin' floors until we make port."

"Aye sir," agreed Sherlock.

Sherlock was released and the little crowd dispersed. Marty brought him a bucket and a scrub brush and then left him to his work while the crew worked on the ship.

Sherlock tied the bucket to a rope and lowered it into the water. He then pulled it back up and set to work scrubbing the deck.

He worked all day in the brutally hot sun, but as he did he deduced many things about the crew. Well, not all of it was deduced, some of it was overheard while eavesdropping, but that wasn't cheating. He was just making good use of the senses he'd been given, something hardly anyone took the time or effort to do.

Marty was an orphan who'd been caught stealing their food and gold. They'd come very close to killing him for it, but in the end the captain had decided to make him work instead, with the promise that if he ever stole again, he'd cut his hands off. He was treated as sort of a pet, and with his scrawny body, beady eyes, and pointy nose, it was no wonder his nickname was "Shiprat."

Hector and Bill were, in fact, twins. They'd been shanghaied into service many years before, and even though they were free to leave whenever they wished, they'd never given up the pirate lifestyle. They were both slackers, and he often caught them slipping away to hide and have a drink.

George spent most of his time in the crow's nest. He was the strong silent type, but when he did choose to speak, his voice was like a booming cannon.

Anna Maria was a runaway who'd stowed away several years back. She'd almost been thrown overboard like them because she was a woman, and to have a woman onboard was bad luck. But as they were in the middle of it, they'd been attacked by the Royal Navy. They forgot all about her as they readied the cannons. During the attack, the few people who knew how to work the cannons had been injured and couldn't fight, and so to prove her worth, Anna Maria had taken over and single-handedly sank the enemy ship. No one ever questioned her worth again.

Philip was from France and spoke zero English, but this didn't stop him from speaking. He never seemed to stop talking, or even to stop for air, not caring that no one could understand him. He was the only one who bothered to speak to him (beyond insults or to tell him he'd missed a spot) but it only served to annoy him. More than once did he consider throwing the bucket at his head.

Captain Carlisle was a bloodthirsty pirate who had a fierce and brutal reputation. He was the kind of captain that would go down with his ship without hesitation. He wasn't an old man, but he'd been doing this job for a very long time.

He had one child, Gwendolyn. Gwendolyn was born mute, and frail and sickly looking. She wore a fine dress, but she didn't style her hair like other girls of her time did, as though she didn't care. There was a deep sadness in her eyes, but he didn't know why. Perhaps she had a lover that she'd been forced to leave behind to come on this voyage. He also noticed that she didn't have any fat on her body; her face was gaunt and her arms and legs were like twigs. Her belly stuck out though, like she was emaciated. She appeared to have been starved, but it didn't make sense, because Carlisle doted on her lovingly.

It took him until nightfall to finish the deck. His fingers were red and sore, and he could see blisters forming.

He was given a stale piece of bread to eat, but he was not invited to join the rest of the crew at dinner. That suited him just fine; he didn't want their company, and it would give him a chance to see the Doctor.

He went down below deck and found himself in a dark room with little light. There were barrels and cannons and other supplies, and on the far side of the room was a tiny prison where the Doctor was being kept. He was lying on the floor on his stomach, rolling the yo-yo around and playing with the string. The bleeding appeared to have stopped.

"Oh hi! Are you my one phone call?" asked the Doctor weakly as he turned his head to look at him.

Sherlock offered him his bread. "Are you hungry?"

The Doctor shook his head. "Time Lords don't need to eat nearly as much as humans. I'll save my appetite for something that hasn't been nibbled on by roaches."

"How's your back?"

"I've had worse. I've been threatened with lashings and burnings before, but never for that particular reason. I guess nothing's perfect and everything has a downside, even red hair." That last part came out as a sad sigh.

The Doctor caught sight of Sherlock's hands and made a face. "I guess they've been working you pretty hard up there, huh?"

"I feel like one of the maids back at my house. When I pictured pirate life, this isn't really how I imagined it."

"I know, and I'm sorry about that. If you want, we can leave and go somewhere else."

"Are you kidding? There's no way I'm giving up now, just because I had to scrub the floor. What kind of pirate would that make me? No, I'm going to stay and work my way up until I'm captain of the ship."

The Doctor grinned. "But just in case you're never promoted beyond floor scrubber, I'll make you feel like a real pirate."

The Doctor pulled himself up with a groan and pulled the sonic screwdriver from his pocket and unlocked his cell door. He then went across the room and found a few swords lying on the floor by some empty rum bottles. He chose one for himself and tossed another to Sherlock.

"Avast, ye scallywag! Surrender yer loot to me, before I have ye walk the plank!"

Sherlock returned his grin and replied, "Ye be no match for Captain Sherlock!"

The Doctor didn't waste any time. He came at him with the sword and slashed at his head. Sherlock moved just in the nick of time to keep from losing his nose.

While Sherlock had never had a fencing lesson in all his life, the Doctor had plenty of experience in sword-fighting. He made sure to not come at him too hard so as not to hurt him, but at the same time moved very fast to keep him on his toes. He held back just enough to keep from winning too easily, but he wouldn't be showing him any more mercy than that.

Sherlock swung his sword at his chest, but the Doctor parried and knocked the sword out of his hand. Sherlock ran to pick it back up, and they started again.

Sherlock got his sword knocked out of his hand many more times, and it was extremely frustrating him. Even injured and in pain, he was no match for the Doctor.

"If this were a real fight, you'd be dead so many times over," yawned the Doctor.

With each failure, Sherlock saw what he was doing wrong. He was letting his anger and frustration get to him, and he was trying too hard to land a blow. Every time he tried to move in with his sword, he was leaving himself open to attack. He was making the Doctor's job easier than it already was.

Beads of sweat rolled down the sides of his head and his chest heaved for air, and his fingers ached from holding the sword and having it knocked out of his grip over and over again. His arms and legs felt heavier than lead, but the Doctor didn't even look winded. His small, thin, puny-looking childlike body hid the strength, agility, and endurance of a mighty Time Lord.

Sherlock took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. He let go of his anger and frustration and made himself feel numb. Clearing away those feelings cleared his mind and sharpened his focus.

He came at the Doctor again, but this time he didn't go straight for his chest or head. He watched his movements and learned which ones signaled which attacks. He analyzed all his strengths and weaknesses and how to use them to his advantage.

He learned that when he moved his arm to the right, he was about to parry. He saw that he was ambidextrous, and so he could switch hands without a thought. He got a certain look in his face when he was about to knock the sword out of his hands. All these things and more made it more and more difficult each time for the Doctor to knock the sword out of his hands.

Every muscle was weighed down by fatigue, but Sherlock ignored the protestation of his body and refused to give up. As the Doctor made to knock away his sword for the umpteenth time, he ducked and did a barrel role around to his back. The Doctor turned around to face him, and the one second that it took gave Sherlock the upper-hand.

With all his might, he brought his own sword down hard on the Doctor's and sent it flying out of his hand and into the wall. Breathing heavily from the exertion, he held his sword against the Doctor's neck and smiled in triumph.

"Well done, my young Padawan," said the Doctor as he gave him an exaggerated bow. Sherlock took all that he'd just learned and organized it in the weapons room of his mind palace. He couldn't wait to try out his new moves on Mycroft. Boy, would he be surprised.

Just then, they heard footsteps coming below deck. The Doctor hurriedly got back inside the brig and Sherlock locked it back. By the time this was done, he didn't have time to find a place to hide.

The captain and his daughter came down the steps. Carlisle saw Sherlock and barked at him, "Get upstairs lad, and give me and me daughter some privacy!"

Sherlock obeyed. He shot the Doctor a quick apology glance.

"I'll wait here. Don't worry, I'll try to not have too much fun while you're gone. The rats make for lovely company."

Sherlock went back up the steps, where he found the crew having a conversation that they quickly hushed down when they saw him. He went to the opposite end of the ship from them and sat down to think.

Not long after, the captain came back up on deck and went to his quarters, but his daughter had remained behind. All the crew, save for Marty and Phillip, went below deck to go to sleep. But the two men, who were supposed to be working, soon fell asleep as well.

Sherlock seized the opportunity and went back to the helm. He held the wheel but didn't turn it, and gazed up at the brilliant, twinkling stars. They were so clear out here, with no city lights to obscure them. The moon was a crescent shape, partially hidden behind a single, dark cloud. A cool breeze blew his hair back like a caress, and the only sound to be heard was the ocean rocking the ship back and forth like a rocking chair. In that moment, he really did feel like the captain of his very own ship. All he was missing was a captain's hat.

_To Be Continued…_


	11. Mutiny

"Cap'n! Cap'n, you've got to see this! It's Phillip!"

The sun was just beginning to peak out over the horizon. Marty was calling the captain, sounding panicked. The rest of the crew got up and ran to see what was going on. Bill took one look and puked over the side of the ship. Sherlock followed them and squeezed his way through to get a look.

The scene was gruesome. Phillip had a large fishing hook stabbed through his mouth, poking out through the back of his head.

"What's goin' on 'ere?" Carlisle demanded as he entered the scene. He took a look at the body and grimaced. He then looked up at Marty and asked, "Are ye responsible for this?"

"No! No I swear. We were supposed to be mindin' the ship, but we fell asleep. I didn't hear 'im scream or nothin', I found him like this! You've gotta believe me!"

"Lock him in the brig. I don't know if he be tellin' the truth or not, but until we know he stays in the cage," Carlisle ordered.

"No! Not with the red-headed devil! I'm innocent, I tell ya! There's a murderer on this ship, and it ain't me!"

George and Hector dragged Marty down below deck, ignoring his pleas of innocence.

"Throw the Frenchman overboard," said Carlisle.

"Wait!" said Sherlock as Anna Maria and Bill lifted the body. "You can't just dump the body like that! That's destruction of evidence. If you remove all the evidence, we won't be able to figure out if Marty really did it or not."

"I won't 'ave a rotting carcass stinkin' up my ship," said Carlisle dismissively. Anna Maria and Bill heaved the body over the side of the ship and released it into the water.

Sherlock kicked the mast in frustration. This might be the dark ages of medicine and criminal justice, but surely these people couldn't be this stupid.

If only he'd stayed awake last night. Of course the night he chooses to sleep is the night a murder takes place.

He inspected the area where Phillip had lain, but there was nothing there except a drying pool of blood.

He was made to scrub the floor again, even though, other than the bloody spot, it didn't really need it. He didn't protest though, so he could watch the crew to see if he could deduce any clues from them. He looked for small things, like bloody clothes or signs of fatigue from lack of sleep. He became so wrapped up in his thoughts that he hardly noticed the heat of the sun or the soreness in his hands and knees.

When twilight fell and he was relieved from duty, he went back below deck to the Doctor. He was sitting on one side of the tiny cell, while Marty sat at the other, leaning against the bars. The Doctor was trying to make conversation, but to no avail.

"Are you sure you don't want to hear about the time I went to Davy Jones' locker? I watched thousands of crabs literally carry a ship into the ocean. Very trippy."

"Shut up, demon," he grumbled.

Sherlock took his empty bucket in hand and smashed it against Marty's face, knocking him out.

"Sherlock! That wasn't necessary, he would have fallen asleep eventually."

"I don't have time to wait for that. We need to talk."

"About the murder? Hector mentioned it when he brought Marty below. Actually, he spat on me, called me a word I won't repeat in front of a little pitcher, and accused me of being behind it and threatened to feed me to a shark, but that's neither here nor there. Have you figured out who did it yet?"

"Not yet. I need to talk out loud so I can sort my thoughts."

The Doctor reached through the bars to put a finger to Sherlock's lips. "Let me try to guess first!"

The Doctor put a hand to his chin thoughtfully, then said, "Let's see. It really was Marty, because he's been arrested. Since everyone already suspects him, no one can really suspect him because he's the most obvious culprit. Because it can't be him, he's the least likely culprit, and since the murderer is always the last person you suspect, it must be Marty!"

Sherlock looked at him with an expression that clearly read _Are you serious?_ "You really are rubbish at deductions, aren't you?"

"I can't be best at everything! I'd like to see you take on Daleks and Cybermen and come out in one piece," grumbled the Doctor. "And if it wasn't Marty, then who was it?"

"I first considered George. He's big and strong, murder would be no problem for him. The problem with him though is that he's too sensitive to be a murder. He keeps his fingernails clean, and his teeth are whiter than anyone else's on this ship. What kind of pirate worries about personal hygiene? Also, I keep noticing him keeping an eye on everyone, like some kind of papa bear. He cares about the people on this ship, so he's not the killer.

"I then considered Hector and Bill. Neither of them are intimidating on their own, but together they could do some damage. But Hector has an injured arm, and Bill is squeamish around blood. He threw up when he saw the body. Therefore, neither of them are the killer.

"I considered Gwendolyn-"

"You think Gwendolyn did it? I don't think that poor girl could kill a fly."

"Every possibility must be weighed and tested. She might have done it. I don't believe it, but as a detective I at least have to treat it as though it were a likely conclusion. I wouldn't be a good detective if I ignored a probability just because it was unlikely."

"Okay, I see. Go on."

"Are you going to interrupt again?"

"Only if I feel like it."

"As I was saying, I don't see any reason for her to have killed him. From what I observed yesterday, they seemed to be on even terms. And if I were her, I would try to stay out of trouble. Most of the crew thinks it's unlucky to have her aboard, since she's a woman. She's keeping her head down, and murder wouldn't really help with that. Gwendolyn is innocent.

"By the way, what were the captain and Gwendolyn doing down here after I left?"

"I couldn't tell, they went over to the other end of the ship and Carlisle kept his voice quiet. But I did see him give her something in a small vial for her to drink. I was thinking it might be some kind of tonic for her health, she is so feeble. What are your thoughts? Do you think Carlisle might be behind all this? Or maybe he knows something he's not telling us."

"I considered him already and came up with a theory which I immediately ruled out. Perhaps he had a secret that Phillip discovered and he was afraid he would tell everyone. But Philip doesn't speak any English, and so the odds of him discovering a secret are low, and the odds of him being able to communicate it to anyone are even lower. The captain is not the killer.

"Last is Anna Maria. She doesn't really get along with anyone on this ship. I also saw her polishing the hooks yesterday. I think she's our killer."

"But why? What did she have to gain?" asked the Doctor. "It seems like this will just mean extra work for everyone else."

"I think she might be planning mutiny. She'd make an excellent captain, and she's probably tired of working under another person, especially when that person is a male. Maybe she was going to kill the captain, but Phillip found out somehow and tried to stop her, and so she killed him instead."

"That seems like a reasonable explanation. What are you going to do about it?"

"Tell the captain, of course. He's such an idiot though, he probably won't listen."

"Don't be too surprised if he doesn't. You are a kid after all."

Sherlock shot him a dirty look.

"Don't get offended, that's the way most adults are. But even if no adult ever listens to you, just remember that I listen to you, and I'm older than all of them."

That was true. He went to the steps, but as he did he passed a pool of blood like the one on deck. Someone had attempted to clean it with a dirty blanket, but had done a poor job of it.

How could there be that much blood down here? Philip had been on deck the whole time, or had he? Had he gone below deck at some point, and was he killed there? But then, why were there no drops of blood leading up the stairs to where Philip had been found?

He would investigate later. For now, he had to see Carlisle. He went up the steps and passed by the crew eating their lunch and knocked on the captain's door.

"Enter," was the reply.

Sherlock opened the door and stepped inside. Carlisle's quarters weren't very fancy, but it was nicer than the rest of the ship. Carlisle was intently studying a map and didn't look up to see who it was. Sherlock strode up to his desk and cleared his throat.

Carlisle finally looked up and sighed, "To what do I owe this most joyous pleasure?"

"I think I may know who really killed Phillip. Anna Maria."

"Anna Maria is loyal to me. She may be a loose cannon at times, but she knows her place and wouldn't kill nobody for no reason."

"It's anybody. And aren't you at all interested in why I think she's the killer?"

"As far as I'm concerned, we 'ave our killer. Marty's locked up good and tight, and so I don't expect we'll be 'avin' any more trouble. Unless you plan to cause more?"

"Screw you, sir."

"What in bloody hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Don't worry, it's a complement. You have a nice day, Captain Carlisle."

Sherlock left the cabin and muttered under his breath, "I really hate that man."

A loud cry suddenly sounded from the other end of the ship. The crew left their food and went to see what had happened.

"I was goin' to take a leak, when I found her like this!" said Bill.

Gwendolyn lay dead on the floor, a cord wrapped around her neck. Her face was blue, and she wasn't breathing. Her eyes were open in frozen terror. Sherlock noted that she no longer looked emaciated. He stored all this information in his mind palace for him to study later. Since they would be dumping her body within minutes, he needed to catalogue every detail before they destroyed all the evidence.

"The captain's not going to be happy about this," said Hector as he shook his head.

The captain was called out, and he knelt by his daughter and stroked her thin, blonde curls.

"So it wasn't Marty after all," he said in a quiet, deadly voice. "Throw 'er overboard, and then I'll be seein' every one of you lot in my quarters, one at a time. I'll smoke out the guilty one, mark my words."

Gwendolyn was thrown overboard, and then Captain Carlisle took Anna Maria into his quarters to question her. The fact that he'd taken her first suggested he hadn't been completely ignoring Sherlock after all.

One by one, every member of the crew was interrogated, but they got nowhere. No one confessed, and no one had any information to offer. Since they didn't have any real suspects and since Bill was the one who found Gwendolyn, he was made to take Marty's place in the brig. Marty was very relieved to be freed, and to be away from the demonic child.

That night, Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the ship, facing the full moon and its silver reflection on the water. No one told him to get down from such a dangerous place, and it made him feel very adult. Instead of holding on for safety, he had his fingers clasped under his chin, pondering on all he'd seen and the clues he'd discovered, and the ones he hadn't discovered yet.

"You, boy! Come here!" Hector called.

The sudden, harsh intrusion to his thoughts startled him and nearly made him fall into the water, but he managed to regain his balance in time. He turned to see what the man wanted.

He saw the pirates sitting in a circle by the mast, where they had been eating their dinner. They now each had a wooden cup.

"Come join us," said George.

Sherlock considered ignoring them, but decided to join them. At least this way he might find more clues.

Hector handed him a cup of what he assumed was rum. "We're havin' a toast to Phillip and Gwendolyn, and it's only right that we all participate."

"What about the captain?"

"The captain will grieve in his own way, in private. Now, everyone, raise your cup."

They all raised their cups into the air.

"To Phillip, the most annoying man we've ever known, but a good friend nonetheless. Here's to ya, Frenchie."

"Here, here," they all said in unison.

They all tipped their drinks, including Sherlock. There was no way he was going to pass this up, rum was part of being a pirate, after all.

Just a few sips was enough to send him hacking. The rum was strong and tasted like urine, but he liked the buzz it gave him.

Hector refilled their cups, and they raised them again. "To Gwendolyn, a sweet lass who was taken too soon. Here's to all the words you never got the chance to speak."

"Here, here."

Sherlock downed his cup, and this time it went down slightly easier and didn't taste quite as bad. He felt like he was floating on air, and though his thoughts still buzzed inside his head, the rum took the edge off of them, like turning down the volume on the telly.

They kept refilling his drink to see how much he could handle. After his fourth or fifth cup, the other crew members had warmed up to him, and they laughed at how tipsy he got. He opened up and talked more than he ever had to anyone, saying things he normally wouldn't have even thought. He was also very giggly, it was a feeling he wasn't used to but liked nonetheless. In that brief period, he felt like these people were the best friends he'd ever had.

With every sip, it became harder and harder to keep his eyes open. The alcohol was too much for his tiny and underfed body, and so he passed out in the circle.

* * *

Sherlock awoke the next morning with a migraine. He was used to headaches, but this one was accompanied by nausea and dizziness. He ran to the boat's edge and vomited into the water.

"Can't hold your rum, eh?" laughed Hector as he patted him on the back, which made the nausea worse, and he threw up again. "Don't worry, you'll get used to it eventually."

"There's been another murder!" yelled Anna Maria suddenly.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around his stomach and forced himself to follow the others to the body. Although he would have much preferred to lie down and not get up again for a week, the prospect of another murder was too much for him to resist.

Anna Maria was pointing up at the mast, where Marty and George were both hanging.

"How'd the killer pull that one off?" Hector wondered aloud.

"The sails were up last night," said Sherlock, his voice still a bit slurred. "Whoever did it tied them to the ropes used to control the sail, and when they unfurled the sails, it pulled the ropes and hanged them."

They all looked at Sherlock curiously, as though he'd just poofed there out of thin air.

As they set to work cutting the two men down, Sherlock went to see the Doctor.

The Doctor was lying on his stomach on the floor of his cage, tracing circles in the dirt on the floor and quietly singing to himself, "Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me. We extort and pilfer, we filch and sack. Drink up me hearties, yo ho. Maraud and embezzle and even highjack. Drink up me hearties, yo ho. Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me."

Sherlock walked over to the brig and knocked on one of the bars to get his attention. The Doctor froze mid-song, then leapt to his feet, his eyes wide.

"There you are! Where have you been?"

"What are you talking about?"

"See for yourself! Notice anything wrong about my cell?"

In his foggy mind, Sherlock looked but didn't see anything wrong with it. Nothing more than the usual stuff, anyway.

"You got me."

"It's missing a prisoner! Bill was taken last night! I was trying to sleep when someone opened the cage and took him out, but it was too dark for me to see their face. I yelled for someone to do something, but no one came. I tried yelling your name, but you didn't come either! What was going on up there? Did you get in a fight with the Lost Boys, or was it the Kraken?"

"Wait a minute," said the Doctor as he sniffed the air. "Is that rum I smell? Oh Sherlock, don't tell me you were up drinking all night. Did you steal a bottle, or did they give it to you? Bloody pirates. And now you're hungover, wonderful. So that's why no one was there to save Bill, you were all throwing a party!"

The Doctor sounded angry, but mostly disappointed, which made Sherlock feel mildly guilty. But he wasn't about to apologize for it.

"It wasn't a party, quit overreacting."

"I am not overreacting. You're a little kid, you shouldn't be drinking!"

"I only had a few cups, hardly enough to ruin my liver. I didn't even get drunk."

"That's not the point!" shouted the Doctor, growing angrier by the second. He pulled at his hair with his hands. "I would never forgive myself if I had to explain to your mum that I let you get yourself hurt or killed."

"My mum wouldn't care, she'd be glad to be rid of me."

"You're so sure she hates you. Well Sherlock, I may not be the world's greatest detective, but I've deduced a thing or two about your family. If you died, your mother wouldn't cry. She wouldn't mourn you. But you would leave a hole in her heart, one that she would never admit existed. And she would feel regret, regret for not being a good enough mother. Try looking at things from her point of view for once. She's trying to take care of you, even if she doesn't always do a stellar job. Raising a genius is no walk in the park, Sherlock, especially when, A) You're not a genius yourself, B) You have more than one, and C) The kid does everything he can to drive you mad. Your mother doesn't like you, Sherlock, and she probably never will. But she does love you, why else do you think she hasn't left?"

"Sure, take her side," said Sherlock as he rolled his eyes.

"I'm not taking sides, I'm Switzerland. Or no, let's call it Doctor-land, where I am neutral to both parties. I'm just calling it as I see it, and I think you need to lighten up on your mother and on Mycroft. They should lighten up on you, too, but when you want to change things, the best place to start is yourself. It might not work, but at least then you can say you tried."

"Oh sure, and while we're at it we can all talk about our feelings and braid each other's hair. Maybe Mummy will let Mycroft and I try on her makeup while we're at it."

The Doctor ignored his sarcasm and continued. "It doesn't matter how young I may appear, I am still the adult in this situation, and therefore I am responsible for everything you do. You're different from my other companions; you're a child, and so I have to take extra care of you. I have to make sure you don't get eaten, or trip and fall into a supernova, or get drunk as a skunk, apparently. I have to keep you safe, and I don't want you getting yourself hooked on alcohol before your ninth birthday! God, Sherlock, for a kid with such an intelligent brain, you make pretty stupid choices."

"So that's what you consider yourself, my babysitter?" asked Sherlock, hurt and angry. "I'm just a burden on you, aren't I? So sorry I've inconvenienced you. Well, I'll have you know that I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, so you can quit worrying. I can do whatever I like and you can't stop me."

"You're right, I can't stop you. But I can dump your sorry tail back at your house and never take you anywhere in my Tardis again."

This made Sherlock stop and listen. "You wouldn't."

"I would, and I will, if that's what it takes. I'm not your babysitter, I'm your friend. I don't set many rules for you because I expect you to have some level of common sense, but now I'm going to lay down a few. You'll do what I ask, even if it seems unfair, or stupid, or nonsensical. You won't do anything that will harm your body, which includes drinking, smoking, drugs, or anything else you might be thinking about. I can tell by the guilty look on your face that there are other things you've been doing that you know you shouldn't. I won't ask you to elaborate on them, but as long as you're with me, you will cease those behaviors. Am I understood?"

"I guess," said Sherlock, his eyes on the floor.

"Good. I can't believe we just had this discussion, you shouldn't even be thinking about those things at your age. But here's a tip, next time you're entertaining thoughts of substance abuse, gorge yourself on chocolate instead. It tastes better, at any rate. Now, please don't make me go into disciplinarian mode again, I don't enjoy it at all."

"The feeling is very mutual."

"And you are not a burden on me, no child is. Children have the brightest minds in the entire universe, it's only when they stop believing that that they lose it and become dull. But let's get back to the case. Have they found Bill's body?"

"No, but they did find George and Marty hanging from the mast this morning. If they don't find him soon, it may mean he was thrown overboard. I heard someone mention before that he can't swim. That means we're down four crew members, plus Gwendolyn."

"I don't think it's mutiny anymore," said the Doctor. "If it was mutiny, you'd keep the crew alive so you could sail the ship. The captain should have been the only target, but everyone else is getting picked off instead. What do you make of this, Sherlock?"

"I think I've got it figured out, but I need to check out a few things first."

"Will you tell me?"

"Not yet."

"You know, this is like one of those mystery trains from the movies. I love those."

"I'll come back later. I'm not going to the captain this time, I'm going to the crew."

"And don't come back until you stop smelling like a distillery!"

He went back up the steps and confronted what remained of the crew, which now consisted of only Hector and Anna Maria. They were speaking with the captain.

"Listen Cap'n, I spotted land due west, not far off," said Hector. "Maybe we should make port until the killer is caught. I mean, we don't even have enough men left to crew the ship!"

"I say we keep going," said Anna Maria. "We've got a buyer waitin' for us who's willin' to pay a pretty price, no one else we'll give us as much as 'im. If the Navy catches us with it, they'll confiscate all our loot and have us hanged."

The captain opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock interrupted him.

"I know who the killer is. It's-"

"Quiet, boy! You make a fool of yourself," said Hector.

Sherlock decided he'd had enough of them not taking him seriously just because of his age. He would prove to them that what he had to say was well worth their time.

"Hector has been stealing from all of you. The money you keep below deck? He's been pilfering one gold coin from it every day, only one coin to keep anyone from noticing. It might not seem like much, but after months at sea, it does add up. He keeps it hidden in a hole under the floorboards below deck. Not even Bill knew he was doing it.

"Anna Maria has been planning mutiny for a long time. She was planning to challenge you the night after Phillip died, but in light of all the murders, she decided to postpone it until you've scrounged up a new crew."

"And you, Captain Carlisle, perhaps have been keeping the biggest secret of all. Gwendolyn was not your daughter, she was your slave. You kidnapped her and cut out her tongue to keep her quiet, and then you passed her off as your own flesh and blood. You were always careful, but a few months ago you accidentally got her pregnant. She wasn't emaciated, she was beginning to show. You realized what was going on and made her take poison, not enough to kill her, but enough to induce an abortion and kill the baby. That's what the blood downstairs was from. Philip wasn't the first person murdered on this ship.

"In light of all these things, any one of you could be the killer. But I know the truth, and if you'll listen, I'll tell you."

All three of them looked shocked and enraged.

"How can he know these things?" asked Hector. "It's not possible!"

Carlisle grabbed him roughly by the arm and said, "He doesn't 'ave a single ginger hair on his head, but I think he might be the real devil 'ere."

"The murders didn't start happenin' until he and the other boy showed themselves," Anna Maria pointed out.

"It's settled then. Sherlock and the red boy will both be executed tonight, for the murders committed on my ship," said Carlisle. "Go fetch the other one. Anna Maria, bring me two pistols, and remove all the bullets but one in each."

Hector went below deck and returned with the Doctor in tow.

"Have you finally realized that there is nothing evil about redheads?" he asked. One look at the pirates glaring at him told him that was not the case.

Anna Maria returned with the guns and handed them to Carlisle, who gave one to Sherlock and one to the Doctor.

"You will take turns firing at each other until one of you drops dead. The winner will then take the loser's pistol and fire at his own head until he finds the bullet."

"And if we refuse?" asked the Doctor.

Carlisle pulled out his own gun and aimed it at his head.

"I see."

Sherlock and the Doctor stood facing each other, with about ten feet between them.

"You go first," said the Doctor.

"If you're trying to be a martyr and sacrifice yourself, just remember that I can't fly the Tardis."

The Doctor cracked a smile. "I'm sure a brain like yours could figure it out eventually."

"One of you shoot or I'll do it for you!" Carlisle barked.

Sherlock cocked his pistol, and the Doctor braced himself for the shot. Slowly, he pulled the trigger, but it only clicked. He and the Doctor both sighed in relief.

"Your turn now," said Carlisle to the Doctor.

The Doctor pointed his gun at Sherlock. "Suddenly our conversation from before has become very ironic."

"No small talk, just do it," Sherlock ordered him.

The Doctor pulled the trigger, but nothing happened.

"I guess lady luck is on our side today," commented the Doctor.

"What about this situation makes you think we're lucky?"

"I always try to be an optimist, especially when I'm traveling with a pessimist."

"Fire again!" shouted Carlisle.

Sherlock fired at the Doctor, and again nothing happened. It was only a matter of time, though, before something did happen.

The Doctor aimed his gun at Sherlock, but just before he pulled the trigger, he turned and shot Carlisle in the leg. He fell to the ground, clutching his leg in agony, and dropped the gun. The Doctor quickly picked it up, but handed it to Sherlock.

"Do what you have to do. I'm not shooting anyone else."

Sherlock pointed the gun as he and the Doctor backed away from the others.

"If any of you come near us, I'll shoot! Don't think I won't!"

Truth be told, he was irked at the Doctor for giving him this responsibility. He had never used a gun before now, and he wasn't sure he could shoot any of them even if they did attack. His hands shook, he couldn't aim properly.

"How did you know you had the bullet when you shot Carlisle?" he whispered.

"I can feel the earth spinning beneath our feet. Even on this ship in the middle of the ocean, I can still feel the world moving. So of course I could feel it when the bullet came into place."

A loud bang sounded, and Hector fell to the ground. For a moment, Sherlock thought he'd pulled the trigger without realizing it, but it wasn't him.

Another shot went off, this time hitting Anna Maria in the neck. She too collapsed, and now it was just them, Carlisle, and the killer.

"Show yourself!" the captain screamed. He tried to hide it, but he was terrified. His entire crew had been picked off one by one, and now it was his turn.

"Would you like me to divulge who the killer is? Or shall I let you see for yourself?" asked Sherlock.

From the mast, the killer climbed down to the deck and pointed a gun at Carlisle's head.

"No! It can't be!" said Carlisle in disbelief.

Gwendolyn stood before him, holding the gun.

"How can this be?" asked Carlisle as he cowered away from her. "Witchcraft!"

Gwendolyn opened her mouth but then shut it again in frustration, as though in her desperate rage she had momentarily forgotten she couldn't speak.

"I think Gwendolyn is trying to say something," said the Doctor. "Sherlock, care to lend her your voice?"

"You thought you'd broken Gwendolyn, but really you were making her into your own worst enemy. All these years you've pushed her more and more, until you pushed her over the edge by giving her a baby and then murdering it for your own convenience."

"But I saw her, she was dead! We threw her overboard!"

"She waited until someone would find her, then cut off the flow of oxygen to her brain. She stopped breathing long enough to make herself look dead, and after she was thrown overboard, she waited until it was safe to climb back up. No one checked to make sure she was actually dead, because you're all idiots. But she's clever, very clever."

This seemed to satisfy her. She motioned with the gun to something by the ship's edge: a cannonball and rope.

Carlisle knew what she wanted him to do. "Come Gwendolyn, see reason!"

She fired another shot through his hat, sending it flying. Carlisle got the message and crawled over to the edge. He tied the rope around his ankle and swung his leg over the side.

"We need to stop her," said the Doctor. "This has gone on long enough."

"She deserves her revenge after everything he did to her."

"It's not for us to decide who lives and who dies," said the Doctor, but he stayed put.

Gwendolyn pressed the pistol against his chest to make him jump. He jumped, but as he did he grabbed the front of her dress and pulled her down with him.

"No!" the Doctor cried as he ran to grab her, but he wasn't fast enough.

They heard the splash as the captain and Gwendolyn hit the water. The Doctor and Sherlock looked down the side of the ship at the ripples left behind.

"What will we do now?" asked Sherlock quietly after several minutes. "What will become of the ship?"

The Doctor looked hurt, like he could feel all of Gwendolyn's pain. "We'll leave the ship. Someone will find it eventually and take it as their own. They'll wonder what happened to the crew, but they won't ever know the truth. They'll tell ghost stories about it, it'll be famous amongst the pirates. That's how ghost stories are born, something mysterious happens and so people come up with stories stranger than the truth. Or, the ship may just sink. It could go either way. So much bloodshed on such a tiny vessel."

"Let's go," said Sherlock. He wondered why the Doctor was so worked up over this. It wasn't like he didn't care at all what had happened here, but mourning them wouldn't bring them back.

They went back to the Tardis. The Doctor flew them out while Sherlock sat on one of the steps, thinking.

After a while, the Doctor said, "You're taking this very well."

"People die all the time. It's a fact of life."

"You sound like you've been seeing them all your life, like you're used to it."

"You're just worried about it because I'm a kid. I can handle it, okay? It's no big deal."

"It doesn't matter how old you are, it's never a good thing. There are planets younger than I am, and I still haven't grown used to it."

"Haven't you seen death before?" asked Sherlock.

"The names of all those I've seen die could fill more books than any planet could hold," said the Doctor bitterly. "Yes, I've seen death."

"Then why aren't you used to it?"

"Because they all mattered, every single one. There's not a single soul in existence that doesn't have value. When I see them die, all I can think is that they had the rest of their lives to live, but the chance was stolen from them. I think of all they leave behind, the impact they made. The truth, Sherlock, is that I don't want to get used to it. I've taken so many lives because I had to, and I'm afraid that one day I won't care anymore. The day I stop caring is the day the universe falls.

"Promise me Sherlock, no matter what happens in your life, that you won't get used to it. That you won't get used to death."

"I don't like promises. They hardly ever are actually kept."

"All right then, don't promise. But at least remember what I tell you, for when you grow up. Can you do that for me at least?"

"Yes, I can do that."

"Then that's all I can really ask of you."


	12. The Eye of the Beholder

"So my only option was to become human. I've done it before, but it is a very painful procedure."

"It doesn't sound pleasant, by any means."

"You're telling me."

The Doctor and Sherlock were having a campout on the moon. The Doctor had expanded the oxygen shields around the Tardis so they could breathe, and they were roasting marshmallows and telling stories. The Doctor turned his marshmallows into s'mores, while Sherlock let them burn until they fell off the stick into the fire.

"Anyway, I was in England, way back when they were first colonizing America. My wife, River Song-"

Sherlock dropped his stick into the fire. "Your what?"

The Doctor sighed. "Remember Sherlock, I am over a thousand years old, and I spent most of those years as a grownup, doing grownup things."

"I know, but it's so weird to think about."

"You think it's weird for you? I'm the one who has to keep track of it inside my head. But as I was saying, my wife had volunteered to keep an eye on me. I don't retain my Time Lord memories after the transition and so it can be pretty dangerous. But it's not easy for the person babysitting me, and babysitting is literally the most accurate way to put it."

"Who'd want to marry you, anyway?" asked Sherlock, genuinely curious.

"Lots of people. What can I say, the ladies can't keep their hands off me."

"But you're alien, you're not human."

"You have a great talent for pointing out the obvious. And species isn't important anyway, you'll understand when you're older."

"Is your wife human, or is she alien, too? And she's not travelling with us, did you get tired of her and drop her off on an asteroid or something, or did she get tired of you? Does she even know you're a mad time-travelling alien? Or are you using some kind of excuse, like you have to go on business trips for work. Do you even have a real job, or are you a space hobo who just happens to own a time machine? And why do you bother coming to earth anyway when you've got the whole universe to see? Is it to be with her? I think I'd take the universe, mate."

"Good lord, never in my life have I seen someone talk so fast without passing out. Were you breathing out your ears? And where did all those questions come from?"

"I'm just curious," mumbled Sherlock.

"I'd take it easy for a while, your brain might just blow a gasket. Now, where was I? Oh yes, the new world.

"Some time passed, and my predicament was solved and I didn't have to be a human anymore. But when River tried to explain things, she made the mistake of not opening the locket first. Human me didn't want to go back to being the Doctor, I liked being John Smith, and so I stole the locket and ran away to America.

"While I was there, I met an Indian girl by the name Pocahontas. Now, human me tends to be a bit of a jerk at times, and so I thought she was a savage, and she thought the same of me. We spent a long time together though, in secret, and during that time she helped human me see that she and her people weren't uncivilized savages. We started out as friends, but then we sort of became more than friends…"

"You mean, you snogged her?" Sherlock really didn't care at all about kissing or anything romantic (and it wasn't just because he was a child). But the Doctor had blushed so furiously when he'd said it that he had to press him for details, to see just how red he could make him get before he exploded.

"That's none of your business," said the Doctor as his cheeks turned even deeper red.

"Did River tell you she was your wife, or did you just not care?" asked Sherlock with a devilish grin.

"The, er… second one," said the Doctor sheepishly, his cheeks somehow going even redder. "Human me was a toerag, okay?"

"But you were still inside him during all this? You and he are the same person, correct? So part of his personality came from you."

"I'm going to pretend that I have a remote that controls your mouth, and I'm muting it," said the Doctor as he held an imaginary remote and pressed a button on it.

"Now, I shall continue my story, if you can stop gossiping about it like an old lady."

"Only if Pocahontas was the only Indian you slept with."

The Doctor took the flaming marshmallow he'd been roasting and threw it at Sherlock, who knocked it away easily with a laugh.

"Moving on!" said the Doctor uncomfortably. "I was later discovered and captured after another Indian was shot and killed by an Englishman. I was to be executed, but Pocahontas risked her own life to save mine, and so her father let me live. She kissed me, but then River showed up just in time to see it and dragged me by the ear back to the Tardis, where she promptly opened the fob watch and brought me back to myself. But then I had to explain my actions while she repeatedly slapped me and threatened to shoot me. She was very jealous, but she's snogged plenty of people too, with that hallucinogenic lipstick." The thought of River brought a fond smile to his lips.

"Where is River now? Does she know she's married to a minor?"

The smile faded from his lips, and the light seemed to leave his eyes. "River and I haven't spoken for a long time. She died, a long time ago. Before I even knew her."

"Oh, I see. Wait, no I don't. What do you mean, 'before you knew her?'"

"Wibbly-Wobbly Timey-Wimey," sighed the Doctor as he stood from his beach chair.

"That is not an appropriate answer," said Sherlock as he stomped out the fire.

"And yet, I shall never fail to give it," replied the Doctor as they packed away their picnic.

They got back in the Tardis and left the moon.

"You'll probably sometime in your life hear that John Smith was shot and had to be taken back to England. That was the story Pocahontas kindly spread to spare me my dignity."

"You have dignity?" asked Sherlock with a smirk.

"My dignity meter is slightly above E," said the Doctor matter-of-factly. "So kid, where to next?"

"Somewhere random. Let the Tardis choose."

"She does that more often than you would think. But okay! Random it is!"

The Doctor threw a switch that rocked the Tardis, knocking them both to the floor.

When it stopped, they opened the doors and found themselves in the middle of a field of tall grass.

"Are we on earth?" asked Sherlock.

The Doctor stuck out his tongue. "Nope, the air tastes all wrong. I believe we're on a similar planet to earth, though."

On the other side of the field were a group of children playing catch with a ball.

"Fancy a quick game?" asked the Doctor.

"I'm not much a sports person," admitted Sherlock.

"If you're rubbish at it, just do what I do and pretend you meant to do it. And besides, you're an alien to these people. They'll expect you to be rubbish."

The Doctor dragged Sherlock over to the other children. When they got close, he waved to them. "Hello! Mind if we join your game?"

It was then that Sherlock noticed something off about the other children. From this distance he couldn't tell what it was, but there was definitely something not right about them.

When they were only a few feet away, it became clear what was wrong with the children: they looked human, but their faces were horribly deformed. Their brows were large and thick, and their eyes were sunken in. Their lips were swollen and twisted and curled, and they had wrinkled, pig-like snouts.

Sherlock gasped in disgust when he saw them, while the Doctor didn't seem affected at all.

The children caught sight of them and ran away towards a little village by a little river.

"Let's follow them to their village. I want to learn more about these people," said the Doctor excitedly.

They followed the children to the village. The village looked very primitive; there was nothing technological to be seen. The houses were made of logs or stone, and the people all wore rags.

It wasn't just the children that were disfigured. Every man and woman had the same repulsive face.

A teenage boy noticed them first. He moved very quickly to get away from them. As more and more people started noticing their presence, they all backed away. Some ran into their houses to avoid them, while others pointed and gawked at them like side-show attractions.

"What's wrong with them?" asked Sherlock in a hushed whisper.

"What's wrong with you?" replied the Doctor. "They may look rather off-putting to you, but to them, you're the disgusting one. Just remember that while we're here, and don't call any of them ugly."

"Why? So I don't hurt their feelings?"

"No, so they don't think you're jealous."

That shut him up.

A woman approached them. "We are the Natiri; my name is Madame Vera, and I am the village elder. I don't know what you things are, but you're not welcome here. I ask that you leave now before you cause any trouble."

The Doctor shook her hand, repulsing her. "Hello, I'm Johnny, and this is my brother, Sherlock. We're delighted to meet you and your people. We don't plan to stay for long, will you grant us lodgings for the night? We'll be out of your hair by noon tomorrow."

"I think that would be most unwise. We are peaceful people. We don't like disturbances, and we don't like strangers."

While Sherlock would be more than happy to get off this planet, the Doctor wasn't about to give up so easily. He was about to protest, when someone else did it for him.

"Madame Vera!" A young woman emerged from the midst of the crowd. Her face was the worst yet; everything about it was bigger and more contorted, like a science experiment gone horribly wrong. And yet the crowd regarded her like she was a princess. They all moved out of her way and looked at her like she was the most beautiful woman who had ever lived. By their standards, perhaps she was.

"Madame Vera, we can't just send them away."

"Foolish girl, look at them. They're foreigners, and horrid ones at that."

"They may be strangers, and they may be ugly, but they're just children. I'll let them stay with me for the night."

"Are you sure you wish to do this?" asked Madame Vera.

"I am."

"Then I shall allow it. But I want them gone by dawn tomorrow."

"Thank you, Madame Vera," said the girl as she bowed respectfully. "Come with me, boys."

The Doctor and Sherlock followed her to her house, all the while feeling the disapproving stares on their backs.

"My name is Yvaine, by the way. You say your names are Johnny and Sherlock?"

"That's right," said the Doctor.

"This is my house, here on the left. I was cooking squirrel soup before all the commotion, there's plenty for the both of you to join me."

"That's very kind of you," said the Doctor. "Isn't it Sherlock?"

"Thank you for your hospitality," he replied.

She led them inside her one-story stone house. The inside was simple, but cozy. There was a table, a stove, and a fireplace. On the far end was a straw bed.

"You two sit down while I get us dinner."

Sherlock and the Doctor sat down at the wooden table while Yvaine went over to the stove to stir the soup.

"By the way, you don't mind if I introduce us as brothers, do you? With us both being kids and all, it just makes it easier to explain. Less questions."

"No, I don't mind. Besides, who wouldn't want an alien brother who could take them anywhere in the universe? It certainly beats a brother who thinks he's a mother, at any rate."

"Yes, being around me does have its perks."

"So, where are we going after we leave tomorrow?"

"You said let the Tardis choose, and this is what she chose."

"She clearly has terrible taste in travel destinations."

"She has never brought me anywhere I didn't need to be. So lay off."

"Can we leave now, before dark?"

"Why are you in such a rush? Let's enjoy our time here."

"You're dressed like Indiana Jones and you own a time machine, I was expecting adventure, excitement. I thought we'd get caught up in some kind of space battle, like Star Wars. Forgive me if I set my expectations too high, but I want to go somewhere dangerous and thrilling. But instead, we've ended up here, on a planet full of boring, grotesque people. The worst kind possible."

"You don't know that. These people could turn out to be the most exciting people you've ever met. Who knows, they might have a unicorn hiding around here somewhere. Or a waterslide."

Sherlock snorted. "A waterslide? We're in peasant-land."

"They must have ways of entertaining themselves."

"Maybe they have ugly pageants, to choose the most hideous of them all."

"Now that's just mean," said the Doctor as he tried unsuccessfully to stifle his laughter

"Dinner is served!" announced Yvaine as she handed them each a steaming bowl of soup.

The Doctor thanked her and then took a bite. Sherlock didn't eat much anyway, but he was wary of squirrel soup. For a moment he wondered how the Doctor could be so casual about this whole thing; from the people to the food, nothing seemed to throw him, it all seemed normal to him. But after a thousand years of time and space, there was probably very little that he hadn't seen or done, and he'd probably dealt with worse.

To show his appreciation to her, he took a few mouthfuls. It scalded his mouth, but beyond that it wasn't bad as he'd thought it would be.

"So, what brings you two here to our little village?" asked Yvaine as she sat down with her own bowl. "And if you don't mind my asking, where are your parents?"

"Our parents? Oh, they're around here somewhere, I suppose" said the Doctor.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. As smart as he was, the Doctor was an awful liar. It was up to him to cover their backs, and save them whenever the Doctor talked them into a corner.

"What my dear brother means to say, is that our parents are missing. We came here for a visit, but we got separated. We've been looking for them for the past two days."

"Oh my!" said Yvaine as she stood from the table. "That's terrible. I'll round up a search party. The others might not like it, but we can't just sit around while your family is in need of help."

"No!" they both cried out in unison. Yvaine froze and stared at them.

"What we mean is, our parents can't be far away," said the Doctor quickly.

"They're very good trackers, if we don't find them, I'm sure they'll find us," said Sherlock. "No need to form a search party."

"Are you sure?" she asked, unconvinced.

"Completely sure," they both replied in unison.

Yvaine looked at them like they'd gone completely mad, but then went back to her soup. Sherlock leaned over and whispered to the Doctor, "We seriously need to work on our cover story."

As they were finishing up dinner, there was a knock at the door. Yvaine stood up to get it. She opened the door for a man holding a bouquet of flowers.

"How's my girl?" he asked as he gave her the flowers.

"Oh Jasper, how sweet of you," said Yvaine as she pecked him on the cheek.

Jasper noticed her dinner guests and made no attempt to hide his disdain. "Yvaine, what happened? Did these two kids get trampled by horses or something?"

Sherlock felt an insult rise to his lips, but he resisted the urge to fling it, for Yvaine's sake.

"Jasper, be nice. They can't help the way they look."

"There should be some kind of law against faces like theirs. And you let them inside the house? Aren't you afraid it'll rub off?"

"What they have isn't a disease, it's just how God made them. Now leave them alone, Jasper," said Yvaine more forcefully.

"Why don't you throw them out so we can have some time alone?" said Jasper with a smirk.

"That's it, get out, Jasper."

"Wait, what?"

"I said get out! I don't want to see you again."

Jasper wasn't about to be dumped, not by the prettiest girl in the village. He grabbed her arms tightly and said, "You're just confused. We'll work this out, but I'm not going anywhere."

"That's enough!" said Sherlock as he and the Doctor appeared by his side. The Doctor pointed his screwdriver close to his head and buzzed it. Jasper released Yvaine and clutched the sides of his head in discomfort.

"What did you do to me?" he asked.

"Don't worry, you'll be fine. You'll just have a pretty bad headache for the next couple days."

Jasper growled and tried to grab the Doctor, but Sherlock kneed him in the stomach, grabbed him by his hair, and rammed his head into the wall, shaking the house.

Jasper couldn't fight anymore. He left the house, shamed by his defeat at the hands of two grotesque children. But on his way out, he said, "You'd better be scarce by sunrise, otherwise I'll kill the both of you, do the world a favor."

"My heroes," said Yvaine as she gave them each a hug.

"You didn't have to dump him on our account," said the Doctor.

"He's had this coming for a long time, and this was the final straw. I don't care how handsome he is, I won't marry a man like him. That son of a-" she stopped herself in front of the children.

"Good idea," said Sherlock.

"You know, you two don't act like regular children do."

"That's because we're not children," replied the Doctor. "We're vertically-challenged pre-adults."

Yvaine giggled and patted them on the head.

They then worked on washing the dishes, another thing Sherlock had never done before (and hoped he wouldn't have to again anytime soon).

After they had finished, it was dark out, and the whole Natiri village was preparing to go to sleep.

"I'm afraid I don't have any room in the house for you to sleep, but I have a stable outside that should work."

"Yes, that will do nicely. Thank you," said the Doctor.

Yvaine showed them where the stable was. It was small, but packed with more animals than it should have been.

"We've been meaning to build on to it to give the animals more space, but with the harvest and all, we haven't had the time."

"We'll manage," the Doctor assured her.

"All right then. Good night."

"Good night," said the Doctor with a smile.

"Good night," grumbled Sherlock. He was not looking forward to the night he was about to have.

Yvaine went back inside the house and they went inside the stable. The stable was well-kept, but still reeked. There were two rows of animals on both sides, and so they laid down on the straw beneath them.

"Well, this is disappointing," said the Doctor.

"So you're finally seeing that staying here was a mistake?" asked Sherlock.

"No. I'm disappointed because I thought the animals might be deformed too, like the people. But they're just ordinary, boring farm animals."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and smiled to himself. He then rolled over on his side, facing a cow, and tried to sleep.

* * *

Sherlock was able to sleep surprisingly well, but awoke to cow slobber all over his face.

"Sick!" he said as he sat up and tried to wipe it off his face. He looked up at the cow angrily, as if expecting an explanation for his rude actions. The cow just mooed and slobbered more, but he moved out of the way this time.

"No, I didn't mean what I said last night. You're not boring, I don't know what I was thinking."

The Doctor had woken up some time before and was having a conversation with a mother hen.

"Why are you talking to the animals?"

"Because they were speaking to me, and it would be rude not to talk back. I speak their language."

"You speak chicken?"

"I speak everything. Now say good morning to Victoria," he said, referring to the chicken in his lap.

"I am not talking to a chicken."

"Well fine then. She's not speaking to you either," huffed the Doctor.

Breaking the calm quiet of a morning, a scream sounded from outside. The Doctor gently set down Victoria, and he and Sherlock ran outside.

Three woodsmen were standing in the middle of the village, their faces full of terror. All three were talking at the same time, and no one could understand them.

Madame Vera emerged from the crowd that had gathered around them. "What is the meaning of this? Only one of you speak, so I can understand you."

The oldest looking one stepped forward. He looked like he wanted to scream again. "We were out in the woods last night. Yesterday we were chopping logs for the new cabin for the newlyweds, and we were trying to sleep, when this beast wandered into our camp! A horrid, monstrous fiend! We came at him with our axes, but he ran away."

"He's still out there," one of the other woodsmen continued. "If we don't do something, he'll find the village, and kill us and our children!"

The people all began murmuring amongst each other about the beast. They were beginning to panic.

"Don't worry, I will protect all of you!" said Madame Vera.

"We will hunt down this monster and kill it before it can kill us!" a man shouted.

"There is no need! I will keep you all safe from the monster!" insisted Madame Vera.

But they wouldn't listen to her. The men gathered together to form a hunting party to find and destroy the beast.

The Doctor whistled loudly until he had everyone's attention. "Listen to me! We don't know what this thing is. It might not mean any of you any harm. Jumping to conclusions when you're scared and panicked and confused has caused more problems in the world than anything else."

"Why should we listen to the freak? He and his brother were supposed to have left by now!"

"We don't want you here!"

"Let Sherlock and me go look for this beast. Let us prove to you that he isn't a threat!"

"And what if you're wrong?"

"…Then I guess we'll get eaten."

This seemed to satisfy the crowd.

"You have until midnight tonight to find and prove that he's not a danger."

"Midnight?" said Sherlock incredulously. "That's not nearly-"

"We'll take it!" said the Doctor.

He grabbed Sherlock's wrist and dragged him back to Yvaine's house. On the way there, an old woman bumped into Sherlock. She didn't say a word, but her face was full of fear and worry.

"Yvaine! Just to let you know, we're going looking for the beast! Don't wait up!" called out the Doctor.

"I know, I heard. But let me go with you. I've seen the beast before, but never said anything. I know where he lives, and I can show you where to find him."

"That would be wonderful, because I had no idea how we were going to find him."

"You were just going to have us wander around the planet all day and hope we happened to stumble across it?" asked Sherlock.

"It's worked before. Not usually, but it's not the worst plan I've ever had. Besides, you'll finally be getting some entertainment. What could be more exciting than a monster hunt? Don't you whine about being bored anymore, mister."

Sherlock tried to imagine what this beast must look like. If these people were already monstrous themselves, then he couldn't imagine what they must consider horrifying and appalling. What kind of monster were they hunting?

Yvaine pulled a bow and arrow from behind her bed.

"I hope we won't need it, but better to be safe than sorry."

The Doctor couldn't argue her point, but it was clear he didn't like it.

Yvaine led them outside the village, with all the people shooting them looks of disdain. Some spat on the ground as they passed.

"I'll miss them so much when we leave," said Sherlock sarcastically. It was bad enough to be considered a freak by his own people, but to be considered a freak by the freakiest of all? It was very annoying.

Yvaine took them through a cornfield and past a patch of wildflowers. At the end of the flower patch was a rickety wooden fence that ran as far as the eye could see. She paused to take a breath.

"Sorry, it's just so difficult to cross the border. It's against the rules to go past this point, for our own protection. I've done it many times before and I love the other side, but it always feels wrong."

She unlatched the gate. They crossed the border into a forest.

"The forest isn't very big, and the beast lives on the other side."

They set off into the forest, wondering as they walked what exactly it was they would find.

_To Be Continued…_


	13. Candles

As they were walking through the forest, the Doctor asked, "So why didn't you tell anyone about the monster?"

"I don't know. He's the most frightening thing I've ever seen, and I can hardly stand to look at him. But he didn't choose to look that way, it's not his fault. There's something about him, something in his eyes that makes me want to believe that maybe he doesn't want to hurt me. Maybe he's only a monster on the outside. That's why I didn't tell anyone, because I don't want to see him hurt."

"You have a very kind heart, Yvaine," said the Doctor. "The universe would be a better place if there were more people like you."

Yvaine's cheeks reddened, but she didn't say anything else.

They encountered many squirrels rabbits and foxes, but nothing bigger than them. The trees blocked most of the sun's light, but there was plenty to see with. The wind picked up, and the Doctor had to hold on to his fedora to keep it from blowing away.

It took nearly half an hour to reach the other side. About a hundred yards away, there was a house that, while still rather small, was a mansion compared to the Natiri's houses. It was very old, and looked like it was falling apart.

"That's where he lives," said Yvaine timidly. "Are you sure you still want to do this?"

"Absolutely. I don't want to see him hurt either," said the Doctor.

They ran to the house, and when they reached it, without any hesitation the Doctor knocked loudly on the door.

"Hello in there! Anybody home?"

"I take it the subtle approach isn't your style?" Sherlock quipped.

"We don't have time for subtlety."

There was no answer to the door, so the Doctor took out his sonic screwdriver and tried to sonic it, but then remembered and sighed.

"Still no wood setting. I'm currently working on a sonic hat and a sonic recorder, but why can't I make a wood setting?"

"Let me do it," said Sherlock with a roll of his eyes. How many times had he picked Mycroft's lock open? Too many to count. He pulled a pin from out of his pocket and picked the lock open.

"What is that thing?" asked Yvaine as she stared at it in wonder.

"Sonic screwdriver," replied the Doctor. "But maybe a pin would be more useful…"

He opened the door. Inside, there was a table with a simple yet elegant tablecloth. There were candles everywhere, candles of every shape and size and color, though in the daylight none of them were lit.

"He's not here," said Yvaine.

"But he was here," said Sherlock. "There's a half-eaten plate of food on the table, we must have interrupted his breakfast. He uses a fork and a napkin; for a monster, he's very civilized."

"Let's check upstairs, he must be hiding," said the Doctor as he made for the steps.

"You go ahead, I'll check down here. I think we're dealing with a clever monster here, he probably has a plan for this."

The Doctor and Yvaine went upstairs while Sherlock looked around downstairs. There was a stove where a pot was boiling. It smelled like wax. So, he was a candle maker. No wonder there were so many candles.

He noticed a rug on the floor, with one of its edges turned up. He pulled it away and found a trapdoor underneath.

"Bingo," he muttered to himself. Without calling for the Doctor and Yvaine, he opened the latch and lowered himself down inside.

The hole was lit, but the second his feet hit the floor the light went out and he couldn't see a thing.

"I know you're in here," said Sherlock as he felt his way through the small space. "I'm not your enemy."

No one answered back. That is, until he reached out and felt a face. They both yelped and jumped back at the same time.

"Please, leave me alone! I didn't do anything, just leave me be!" the other person said.

"Its' all right, you're all right," he said to try to calm him.

"No! Don't look at me, just leave me alone!"

Sherlock pulled himself out of the secret room, lit a candle, and then descended back into the hole. As he was doing so, the Doctor and Yvaine rushed back down the stairs.

"What's happened?" asked Yvaine.

"I found our monster," replied Sherlock.

The other two followed him back into the secret room. The light from the candle illuminated the tiny room, where in the corner a young man cowered. He wore simple clothes like the Natiri, and he looked like them, too. But he hid his face in his hands.

"Go away!" he screamed at them, the sound muffled by his hands. "Leave now!"

"I'm afraid we can't do that," said the Doctor as he took a step forward. "Your life is in danger. Not from us, but the people from the village on the other side of the forest are coming tonight to kill you. We want to help you, but we only can if you'll let us."

"No one can help me," he said. "You want to help me now, but you wouldn't if you saw my face."

"I find that hard to believe. What's your name, son?"

"L-Link."

"I like that name, Link. Now, show us your face and let us decide if you're worth our time or not."

"It's too horrifying. You'll just throw up, or run away screaming. Just take my word for it and go."

"Not until I see you," said the Doctor firmly.

This was one of those times when it wasn't hard for Sherlock to believe that the child before him was actually a grown man. He spoke kindly, but there was an authority there as well. He really couldn't care less what anyone looked like; he cared about them no matter what. He sounded like a wise man living on a mountain, but only when he needed to, only when it mattered. Otherwise, he was perfectly happy to act like the child he appeared to be.

The man slowly, nervously, removed his hands from his face.

Sherlock and the Doctor gaped at the man before them as Yvaine shrieked. She'd never seen him up close before, and now she could really see him for what he was.

He had thick golden hair that curled slightly, and eyes that were the deepest blue. Every feature of his face was flawless, like it had been carved out of the finest stone by angels. No creature in the universe could ever hope to compare. He was the very definition of beauty and radiance, yet his face was lined with terror and self-loathing.

"Now do you see? I'm a monster. Now go away."

"You're not a monster, Link," said the Doctor gently. "Yes, you are very different. But even after looking at you, we still want to help you. Come upstairs with us, well make some tea and we'll talk."

Link looked astonished that they hadn't fled at the sight of him, but he followed them up to the house.

"Be a good lad and make us some tea, Sherlock," said the Doctor as he and Link took places at the table.

Sherlock grumbled something at him, to which the Doctor replied, "Let's watch the language there, kid."

Sherlock had never made tea before, but he'd watched the maids make it many times and it didn't seem all that hard. He found a tea kettle and some tea leaves and set to work boiling water. Yvaine elected to stay at the other end of the room, every now and again daring to sneak a glance at Link, like he was a frightening zoo animal.

"Do live here alone, Link?" asked the Doctor.

"Yes, but my mother comes to visit me sometimes."

"Who is your mother?"

"She never told me her name. She's just mother."

"Is she the one that told you that you're a monster?"

Link nodded. "But it's the truth. She's only being honest, and I wouldn't have it any other way. All my life she's taken care of me, even though she's so pretty and I'm so terrible. She loved me, even though I'm an abomination."

"What happened last night?" asked Sherlock from the stove.

"My mother never lets me leave the house, to keep me safe. But yesterday, I saw the most beautiful woman in the world. She's come close to my house before, but last night she came closer than ever. I broke the rules and left, I couldn't stop myself. I had to see her up close and hear her voice, see her eyes. I guess I convinced myself that she wouldn't be frightened of me. I was wrong. All I did was make her hate me, and bring the hunters down on myself, I'm so stupid."

Link was looking at Yvaine as he spoke, and the Doctor said to her, "Yvaine, you didn't tell us you were here yesterday."

"I said I've been by here before. I didn't think I needed to list the specifics," snipped Yvaine. She turned and exited out the door, unable to endure the sight of him anymore, which made Link even more ashamed of himself.

"Why don't you come with us. We'll show them that you're harmless," said the Doctor.

"I think that's a bad idea," said Sherlock as the tea finished and he poured their cups. "To say they don't like us is the understatement of the century, and they're scared senseless of him. The only one of us they'll listen to is Yvaine, and she is clearly disgusted and frightened by him. The best thing to do would be to take him away from here and hide him. Otherwise, he'll be dead by morning."

Link looked stricken. The Doctor shot Sherlock an irritated look and said, "Okay, Sunshine here is no longer captain of the morale squad."

Sherlock just shrugged his shoulders and took a sip of tea. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't good, either. The Doctor took a sip as well, winced slightly, and as politely as possible, pushed the cup far away from him.

"But he's right. The hunters won't listen to you, you'll just be putting yourselves in harm's way for no reason if you stay with me. Besides, a monster like me doesn't deserve saving," said Link, his eyes on the floor.

The Doctor's face became expressionless, as though no expression could adequately suffice for how he felt about all this on the inside. He stood from his chair and began picking up and looking at the candles in the room.

"So Link, I take it you made these?" he asked as he admired a blue swirly one.

Link nodded.

"You have so many here. Do you make all the candles the village uses?"

He nodded again.

"They are so lovely," said the Doctor as he set down the blue one and picked up a long red one. "You have a gift, Link. I tried to make candles once and set the stove on fire. You must be very talented."

Link raised his eyes slightly, as though the complement utterly perplexed him.

"I've met many monsters in my time," continued the Doctor as he touched each candle. "Big ones, small ones, fat ones, skinny ones, fleshy ones, metal ones. I've seen them come in every color of the rainbow. They are monsters because they don't love, because they hurt people without a second thought. They pretend they're not really people so they don't have to feel guilt for what they do.

"But I can tell you're not like that, just by looking at these candles," said the Doctor as he held up a pink, square one. "A monster could make a candle, but he wouldn't put so much thought into every single one. You take a lot of time making these, don't you? You don't just do it because you're bored. You envision each candle and what size it will be, what shape, and what color. Some of these even have pleasing aromas that will be released when they're lit.

"But none of them have been lit, because you want to share them. You would give each and every person you meet the same care and respect you do these candles, but you're not allowed to be with them, and so you put all your efforts into the candles. If you could be with them, you'd inspire light in them, just like in one of these candles," said the Doctor as he struck a match and lit a red and yellow one.

Link raised his eyes up and stared at the Doctor with the tiniest glimmer of hope.

"You have far too much love to ever be a monster, Link. And when you let yourself believe that, then other people can believe it, too."

"But they won't listen-"

"I will make them listen," said the Doctor intensely. "I'll make them open their eyes and see that you are indeed different, but not something to be feared.

"But if they won't listen, if they won't accept you, then we'll help you escape. I have a big blue box called a Tardis that can take you anywhere in the world, anywhere in the universe. I can take you somewhere where there are people just like you, and no one would be afraid of you. You would be loved there, you wouldn't have to hide in the dark anymore. But I will only use it as a last resort. I want you to be happy here, but I won't let them kill you."

"But what about my mother? I can't leave her behind."

The Doctor put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. "If you leave, she can't come with you. Where you'd be going, to the people there, she would be the monster. They'd be more accepting and wouldn't harm her, but she would forever be an outcast and have to hide her face, like you. She would be happier here."

"How could anyone think her a monster?" asked Link incredulously. "She's so very lovely. They'd be crazy to not see that."

"That's just the way it is," sighed the Doctor.

"But it isn't fair. And that would mean they'd reject Yvaine, too. Not that she would ever go with me, but if she would… And it's not just her face," said Link, a smile stretching across his face as he thought of her. "Sometimes I can hear her sing. Her voice is sweeter than a thousand bird songs, purer than bells ringing. She's never smiled when she watches me, but I just know her smile is brighter than the sun."

Sherlock hid the disgusted face he was making behind his tea cup, but the Doctor just smiled.

They didn't talk much for the rest of the day. Most of the conversation revolved around the Doctor telling Link he wouldn't rest until he made the Natiri see him for who he really was, while Sherlock was busy trying to convince him that leaving was his only option. Eventually the conversation turned into an argument that got so heated they had to take it outside. It was already dark, midnight was not far off.

"How can we expect Link to ever feel confident about himself if we take him to Earth? Getting him and the other Natiri to get along is the only way he'll ever be able to accept himself the way he is."

"Why can't you understand that they'll never accept him? If you make him stay, you might as well be signing his death certificate."

"Why are you so certain they'll reject him?"

"Because they already have! What makes you think they'll change their minds?"

"People can change! I've seen people change!"

"But Yvaine is the only one that matters to him. He's in love with her, but he's the monster from her worst nightmares. She'll never love him back. Take him to earth and he'll have no trouble finding a woman who'll love him, but leave him here and you condemn him to a life of misery and heartache, and that's if he survives the night."

"You don't care about love, you don't know the first thing about true love, you're just using it as an excuse. Why can't you believe in people?"

"Because I know what it's like to be like him! We're both freaks, neither of us will ever fit in. I'm stupid enough to keep trying with the kids back home, so why subject him to the same torment? I guess the truth is, I want him to go where he'll be admired and accepted, because there will never be a place like that for me."

The Doctor calmed down, and for a long time he didn't speak. Sherlock was angry with himself for sharing something so personal. He hadn't meant to say it, it had slipped out. He hated opening up in anyway, and yet he'd just opened up to an alien, but he didn't know why. He vowed right then and there that he wouldn't slip up like that again. He might inflict the world with his deductions, but he'd keep everything else to himself.

Finally the Doctor broke the silence. "When I was a kid, over a thousand years ago, I was alone too. I wasn't considered a freak, that didn't come until later, but I was picked on. I had only one friend, though I can't really call him a friend anymore. The point is, I've never really felt like I belonged, either. Not on my home planet, not on any other planet I've ever visited. The closest I've ever felt to feeling at home is on earth, but even there I'm still an oddity. I didn't have it as badly as you and Link do, but don't think for a second that I don't understand."

Sherlock had been about to reply, when Link stuck his head out the door and said, "It's midnight."

"Link, what do you choose?" asked the Doctor. "We can meet the hunters, or I can help you escape. Which would you prefer? It's up to you."

Link thought it over a moment. Sherlock knew he was thinking about Yvaine, although he couldn't understand why he would risk his life in the fleeting hope that she might one day not hate him. He knew the chemical reaction called love made people to irrational things, but he had no desire to understand it beyond that.

"I'll go with you to meet the hunters. But if they still want me dead, I won't stop them, and neither will you. I can't leave my mother or Yvaine, so I will accept my fate with dignity."

The Doctor nodded in agreement, but Sherlock doubted he'd go through with it. Link was sweet and kind, and the Doctor was rather fond of him. He knew he had no intention of letting anyone hurt him; he'd drag him to the Tardis kicking and screaming if he had to.

They each took a candle to light their way and then walked together to the woods. There was still no sign of Yvaine; it didn't look like she would be coming back. So much for not wanting to see him hurt.

Before they even passed any trees they could see the torches. The Natiri were on the hunt.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. They were getting closer. Link was trying to be brave, but he still was slightly curled in on himself, as though he wanted nothing more at that moment then to curl up and disappear.

More time passed. They could now see faces just a few yards away; about thirty grotesque faces illuminated by firelight. They all carried spears and torches.

"There it is! There's the fiend!" cried one of the men. "Look at it! He must come from the pits of hell itself!"

Link cowered back, but the Doctor pulled him by his arm and wouldn't let him run away.

"I found your monster!" declared the Doctor. "But I'll have you know that he is the complete opposite of what you call monster. Yes, his face is ugly and scary, but he's about as dangerous as a butterfly."

"And how do we know you're telling the truth? Can't the beast speak for himself?"

Link took a shaky breath and stepped forward. "My name is Link. I promise, I'd never hurt anyone. I'm sorry that I scare you, but I really mean you know harm. I'd die before I killed any of you. Please, just give me a chance to prove myself to you. That's all I ask."

One of the men jabbed his spear at Link's chest, just under his nose. "You'd say anything right now to save your own skin. Don't worry, I'll make this quick."

He raised the spear, but an arrow flew out of nowhere and hit the man in the arm the spear was in. He yelled out as he held his bleeding arm and dropped to the ground on his knees.

Yvaine ran in front of Link, her bow in hand and another arrow notched and ready to go.

"Leave him alone," she ordered, though her voice quavered.

Out of the crowd of men emerged Madame Vera. "Yvaine, what are you doing? Why are you defending this beast?"

"Because it's the right thing. He is not a monster, he's a man, and an innocent one at that. Never once has he threatened us, and yet you've turned on him. I won't let you kill him when his only crime was being born."

"Very well then," said Madame Vera. "I came here tonight because I believed I could protect my people without violence. However, now that I've seen it with my own eyes, I know in my heart that this monster cannot be trusted. It is for the greater good that he be put to death and if you stand with him, then you shall die with him."

"Not so fast, Vera!" called out a woman's voice. An elderly woman bearing a crossbow came out from the shadows and came to stand by Link's side. Sherlock recognized her as the woman who'd bumped into him earlier, just before they'd left the village.

"Mother!" said Link, slightly relieved to see her.

"Link, how many times have I told you not to leave the house without your crossbow? You know how to use it, so why don't you?"

"I didn't want to frighten them any further, or make them think I wanted to hurt them. I'm sorry."

"We'll talk about it later." She turned to Vera and said, "Tell the men to back away, where we can't be overheard."

"Why? So you can kill me while I am undefended?"

"No, so they can't spread the little secret I'm about to spill."

Vera's face went white. She ordered the men to back off.

When they were alone, she said, "You want everyone to believe that you're perfect. You want them all to look to you like they would a mother, for protection. And yet, you want to destroy your one shame. Your own son you tried to kill twenty years ago, because he had the face of a monster. You left him out in the snow to freeze to death, but I found him and raised him as my own, out beyond the border where he'd be safe. And now you've come to finish the job. Well Vera, let me make a deal with you. I, and all these witnesses that have gathered here at my son's expense, won't tell the others about Link, if you call off the hunting party and let us go in peace. Link won't bother anyone from the village, and everyone can forget this ever happened. If you don't, everyone will know this secret, and they will never trust you to lead them again. You'll be cast out of the village."

Vera looked like she wanted to argue, or scream, or both. She was cornered and she knew it, an she had no way out. After several moments consideration, she gave in.

"I accept your deal," said Vera.

"And," added the Doctor. "You promise that you won't kill anyone else like Link. You will let them live in peace, and not refer to them as monsters."

"I will," she said, in a painful tone.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Call off the hunters!" said Link's mother.

Vera turned and went to talk to the hunters. It took a lot of persuasion, but she was finally able to convince them that Link wasn't a threat.

Vera and the hunters left, and Link's mother said, "Let's go home, son. This time, you're to stay in the house."

"Yes mother."

They began walking away, when Yvaine said, "Link, wait!" Link turned to look at her, a look of cautious hope on his face.

"Will I ever see you again?"

"You know where to find me. But you don't have to. I know it's hard for you to be around me-"

Yvaine surprised him by wrapping her arms around him in a tight embrace. Link looked stunned, while his mother just smiled.

"It'll take a while, but I'll get used to it," she said with a small, genuine smile.

Link's eyes glistened; he was unable to believe what was happening to him. For once, someone wasn't scared of him. Yvaine didn't hate him, didn't run away or scream. The girl he loved accepted him for the way he was, and it was more than he'd ever expected. For one fleeting moment, he forgot all his self-loathing and let himself just be happy. He pulled Yvaine closer and smiled.

"I love happy endings!" said the Doctor as he joined their hug. Either he didn't notice that he was interrupting their special moment or just didn't care.

Sherlock didn't understand how you could feel joy by making other people happy; he thought it was a silly belief held by ordinary people. But looking at the Doctor now, his face beaming, it was clear that he thrived on it; it was what kept him going in life.

The Doctor and Sherlock said their goodbyes then, and headed back to the Tardis.

"This was like _Beauty and the Beast_, except I can't tell who's the beauty and who's the beast."

"It's all in the eye of the beholder," said the Doctor, still grinning ear to ear.

"So how did Link come to be? How was that possible with them all looking like that?" asked Sherlock as the Doctor opened the Tardis door.

"Genetic mutation," he answered as they stepped inside. "There used to be more like him, but the people would kill anyone like him on sight. They'd even do raids sometimes, they were so paranoid. I put a stop to it a few decades ago, and I had to make sure they hadn't gone back to it. Because of their actions, there's only a one in a million chance that a baby will be born with the mutation."

"Maybe that's a good thing."

The Doctor looked at him. "Did your mother, by any chance, take you to see any doctors?"

"Several. They all more or less agree that I'm a high-functioning sociopath."

"I can tell you're the sort of boy that doesn't listen to doctors, but I can also tell that you're letting that diagnosis influence how you shape yourself. Don't listen to them, Sherlock. Maybe you are a sociopath, maybe you're not. Personally I'm with the latter. It doesn't matter what they say, because in the end you decide who you are. Not your parents, not your friends, not the doctors or teachers. You."

"You don't think I'm a sociopath?" asked Sherlock. He'd be the first.

"Well, anyone can see that your head isn't screwed on just right. But I'll let you in on a secret: no one has their head screwed on right. The best people are the ones that stop trying to fix their head and instead use it to create wonderful things. Stop trying to fix that head of yours, Sherlock, and use it to do great, wonderful things instead."

"You're a doctor who's telling me not to listen to doctors," Sherlock pointed out.

"It's up to you who you're going to listen to. Just make sure it's the right person. Now, where's our next adventure, kid? Give me a heading."

* * *

_**Author's Note:**__ As you might have noticed, this chapter and the last were based off Beauty and the Beast and The Hunchback of Notre Dame. But they were also inspired by the Twilight Zone episode "The Eye of the Beholder" and the X-Files episode "The Post-Modern Prometheus." Both episodes are great and I highly recommend them._


	14. Resting Place

Sherlock was watching the Doctor as he sat in his swing under the Tardis console making repairs. The Doctor hummed a merry tune, harmonizing with the mechanical hum of the ship. At his feet were many assorted tools, very few of which looked even remotely recognizable. There were also things that looked like nuts and bolts, but were really too different to be labeled as such.

On Sherlock's back was his backpack that they'd retrieved from his home earlier that day, full of clothes and his toothbrush. When he'd needed to wash his clothes, he'd had to wear some of the Doctor's old clothes, which of course were ginormous on him. They'd meant to get his things sooner, but they both tended to be absent-minded when it came to their own personal welfare.

"So Doctor, I was wondering," began Sherlock.

"Wondering is good," replied the Doctor without looking at him. He was wearing safety goggles that must have fit him at one time in his life but were now comically oversized.

"I've been with you for three weeks."

"Have you really? Linear time is so hard to keep track of. Unless I kept tally marks on the wall, I don't think I could ever keep up."

"And during that time I've watched you fly the Tardis," hedged Sherlock.

"I am a rather excellent driver, if I do say so myself."

"And after all that, I believe I understand it well enough to fly it myself."

"What was that? Didn't quite catch that last part."

"I want to fly the Tardis."

"You'll have to speak up kid, my ears aren't what they used to be. I'm such a golden-oldie."

"I want to fly the Tardis!" Sherlock yelled, getting frustrated.

"You want to fly her? You mean like a bird? Are you going to pick her up and fly her on your back? That sounds like an awful lot of work."

"No, I want to pilot the Tardis."

"The Tardis has no pilot, merely a humble guide. She doesn't let just anyone play with her controls, I'll tell you that."

"Let me fly your ship!" said Sherlock. If he kept this up he might just start throwing things at him.

"She doesn't fly, she disappears in one place and reappears in another. Kind of like a rabbit in a magic hat. If you don't even know that, how can you fly her?"

"I'm a proper genius, you said so yourself."

"I said that? I must be spending too much time in the time vortex, apparently."

"I'm not a Time Lord, but I'm plenty clever enough to fly your ship."

"Your call is important to us. Please hang up and try again."

Sherlock picked up a tool that almost looked like a monkey wrench, and threw it at his hands, completely screwing up his work. The Doctor brushed it off though and pretended it hadn't happened. Sherlock stormed back up the stairs to the console.

"Wait, come back! I'm not done ignoring you!" called out the Doctor with a laugh.

Sherlock held his hands over the console, wondering which button he would push first. He knew full well that he didn't know how to fly, and that he needed the Doctor's help. But the Doctor was very protective of his ship and didn't trust him to do it right, and so he wouldn't help him. Any other companion would have left it at that (no other companion would have even considered flying her, for that matter) but this was Sherlock, and once he decided he wanted to do something, by golly he was going to do it, especially when told not to. The Doctor had his chance to supervise and make sure he didn't mess anything up, but now he would have to face the consequences of ignoring little Sherlock.

He flipped a switch, and the Doctor called up, "Don't you even dare!"

This made him flip more even more switches and press more buttons. He'd seen the Doctor do it, he knew how to make it work. He just didn't know where they'd end up.

The Doctor left what he was doing as the mechanical wheezing noise of the Tardis sounded. He ran up the stairs to see what kind of trouble they were in.

"I swear, if you've flown my baby into a sun or a black hole I am never speaking to you again."

They opened the doors, and immediately they were both grabbed and hauled away by two lizard men.

"Nice destination," scoffed the Doctor.

"But I was able to fly her. I just wanted to prove my point," said Sherlock smugly.

"You always have to prove your point, don't you? Always have to have the last word."

"I have to have the last word? Last week, you let us get swallowed by a whale just to prove Jonah's story happened, and to prove that it is possible to survive for three days in the stomach of a whale. I had to smell nothing but fish guts for seventy-two hours straight. I will never be able to forget that smell, Doctor."

"Don't you dare judge me, Mister 'The world is round, I don't care what you say. You go ahead and burn me at the stake if you want, but I refuse to ever shut my mouth ever!'"

"It's the truth!"

"So what! They'll figure it out eventually. I don't like being burned at the stake for things that will work themselves out. We just barely made it out alive, that's the second time with you I've faced a burning."

"I think that was all your fault, Mr. Ginger."

"Don't mess with the hair. And my clothes still smell like smoke, thanks to you. I can't wear my fedora without smelling like a smoker."

"I had to wash mine three times before the fish smell came out."

"Silence!" the lizard men ordered.

They were both dragged into a control room. There were four other lizard people frantically working controls, and outside large glass windows they could see stars and asteroids. They were on a spaceship.

Red lights were flashing and an alarm was sounding. They were caught in an asteroid belt.

"A crashing ship, nice one," said the Doctor, though he wasn't really mad at Sherlock. In fact, he was rather impressed that an eight year old human understood the controls well enough to fly the Tardis, genius or no genius. Even if he didn't know where he was going, it was still better than any other human he'd seen, except for Donna and River of course. Thinking of them saddened him though, and so he instead pretended to be angry with Sherlock. He had to at least try to be a responsible guardian, after all.

"It's not a sun or a black hole. Count your blessings," replied Sherlock, obviously pleased with himself.

"We caught two stowaways. We don't know where they came from, but they came out of a big blue box of some kind."

"Who is the captain of this ship?" asked the Doctor.

"He's dead. Eaten from the inside out by space worms," said young-ish looking lizard. "He was the only one who could fly through an asteroid belt and come out alive."

The Doctor looked up at the lizard man holding him. "I can fly through the belt and keep the ship intact."

"You're just a child, you can't fly a spaceship."

"What have you got to lose? You're about to die anyway."

The two lizard men looked at each other uneasily, then released the two boys. The Doctor ran over to the man at the wheel. "May I?" he asked.

The woman steering ignored him, but then scraped the side of an asteroid. The force of it sent the ship heading straight for another asteroid. She threw hands up in the air and moved out of the chair, and the Doctor gripped the wheel and steered it out of the asteroid's way.

The Doctor deftly navigated his way through the belt. He made it look easy, but really it required great concentration.

The asteroids were getting bigger. The Doctor did many flips and twists with the ship to avoid them, but really he was just showing off.

They came upon an asteroid the size of a planet. The Doctor pulled up as hard as he could, his teeth gritted with exertion. He just barely skimmed it, and after that, they were clear of the belt.

The lizard people cheered, but the Doctor just tipped his hat.

"Thank you so much, human child," said the lizard woman who'd been trying to fly the ship. "We are forever in your debt. What is your name?"

"The Doctor, but I'm not human and I'm not a child."

The lizards all looked confused, but they quickly dismissed it.

"For saving the ship, we're making you our new captain."

"Erm, thanks for the offer, but I have my own ship to fly. Someone else is already trying to steal her," said the Doctor as he shot Sherlock a pointed look.

"We will make a deal with you. Pilot out ship until we reach our destination, and then you will be free to go. We do not have far to go now."

The Doctor shrugged. "All right then, I accept. May I see the coordinates of our destination?"

As the lizard woman showed the Doctor a computerized map of the system they were in, the lizard man who'd caught Sherlock before came to stand before him. He looked down at him disapprovingly.

"Are you of any use to us?" he asked in a deep, gravelly voice.

Sherlock stared up at him and replied, "If you're looking for hired help, you can take your search elsewhere. I don't work for reptiles."

"Sherlock," warned the Doctor as he studied the map. "If you can't say something nice, then shut the hell up."

"I will if they will."

"Play nice," he hissed.

The lizard man said, "If you serve no purpose, then oxygen and food rations will not be wasted on you. You will be ejected in one of the escape pods."

"Hold on," said the Doctor as he turned around and leaned against the wheel. "I'm the captain, and what I say goes. And I say he stays."

"Negative. The ship rules are that every member serves a purpose, or they are ejected."

"Then make him clean the toilets or something, but don't eject him."

"There is no position available, especially not for a rude child. He will be ejected."

"Wait one second," said the Doctor calmly as he reached into his pocket. He pulled out a silver key and tossed it to Sherlock.

"Is this a key to the Tardis? Does that mean you're giving me permission to fly her?"

"Good lord, no! Just hang on to it for now, and I'll catch up to you later, after we've landed. The ship will land in twelve hours, most escape pods have enough oxygen to last fifteen. I'll land the ship and then come find you."

"Sounds like a plan to me," said Sherlock.

"If I wanted my Tardis destroyed, I'd send it to the Daleks as a birthday present," muttered the Doctor under his breath.

The lizard man grabbed his arm and dragged him out of the control room and into a room with several escape pods, all of them just a few inches taller than Sherlock. He opened one of them and shoved him inside, and then closed it back.

The pod was small and cramped, but luckily Sherlock was not claustrophobic. He was jerked harshly when the pod was ejected, but then he felt nothing else but a light, floating sensation as he drifted through space.

He looked at all the flashing buttons and considered using them to try to control the pod, but eventually decided against it. Flying the Tardis was one thing, but if he accidentally opened the door, he would be dead in an instant; there would be no second chances.

Anyone else would have been mesmerized by the sight of billions of stars floating past, and overwhelmed by the sheer vastness of space. But to Sherlock, it was utter torture. The monotony of just sitting there with nothing to do, nothing to stimulate his brain, was almost too much for him to bear. He remembered the suggestion Mycroft had once given him for times like these: to work out complex math problems in his head. It only took the edge off his boredom, but it was still very maddening.

Several extremely boring hours passed before anything happened. He was banging his head against the side of the ship when something finally changed. He still felt like he was floating, but now he felt a tug, like a vacuum was sucking him in. The pod had no windows, but Sherlock realized that he must have drifted too close to a planet, and its gravity was now pulling him in.

He was going to crash land.

Over the next few minutes, he felt the pod moving faster and faster, until it crashed into the ground. Sherlock was thrown against its side, smashing his face into the wall painfully. He reflexively put out a hand to catch himself, and the force of the crash broke his right wrist, making him cry out in pain.

The door popped open on its own, and Sherlock crawled out. Every part of him ached, and he could feel his face bleeding. But other than the broken wrist, he was okay.

He stood on shaky legs and, while holding his throbbing wrist, looked around at his surroundings. When the pod had crashed, it had made a deep crater in the ground. No, that wasn't right. He was in a hole, not a crater. Light shone in from above, and he could see that there was a long catacomb leading from the pod. He doubted a pod crash could cause that.

With difficulty, he pulled himself on top of the tiny pod to the above ground. He bit his lip to keep from yelling from the pain of his protesting wrist.

The pod was spherical and smooth, not easy to climb on. Sherlock braced his foot against a wall of dirt and pushed himself up, and was able to climb on top.

Breathing heavily from exertion, he looked around. The sky was dark, but there was just enough light to see. He was in a graveyard that looked like it had been abandoned ages ago. In fact, the hole he pod had landed in was right by a headstone.

He gasped when he noticed the Tardis; it was humongous. It was as tall as a skyscraper. That couldn't be the Doctor's Tardis, but it looked just like it. Perhaps it was a monument to him. That made sense.

He got another surprise when he noticed the name on the headstone: River Song. So this was her grave. Why would the Doctor bury his wife in a place like this? Sure, cemeteries weren't supposed to be cheerful places, but this place was so dark and cold. If you were burying a loved one, you would do it in a nice place to honor them. This place was the opposite of that.

It occurred to him then that he hadn't seen a coffin in the hole. Maybe the tunnel he'd seen led to a special tomb, a final resting place befitting the woman the Doctor had loved so dearly.

Sherlock had a morbid curiosity to see where the tunnel led. Maybe the tunnel led to River's grave, or maybe it led to nowhere. Either way, he had some time to kill waiting for the Doctor. He might as well do some exploring.

He dropped back into the hole. The catacomb was dark and he'd need a light. There was a torch on the wall, but he didn't have any matches. He had been about to begin the arduous climb back to the surface to look for sticks to make a fire, when the pod suddenly burst into flames, sending a blast of heat into his face. He lit the torch and then wandered down the tunnel.

The walls were made of dirt and stone; they were all the same. But Sherlock was careful to spot and record the small differences of each one, such as the cracks and the spider webs hanging from them. It was important in case the tunnel branched off and became a maze. The last thing he needed was to become lost in another person's grave.

Several minutes passed, and he reached a metal door. It wasn't locked, but it was heavy. He pushed it open and then closed it back.

The walls were no longer made of dirt and stone, but of metal. He took this as a good sign and kept going.

He walked a good ways and then came to a flight of stairs. As he climbed them, he began to feel dizzy and lightheaded. He had no idea why. It had been several days since he'd eaten or slept, but he didn't think that was it. He'd gone longer than that before feeling anything like this. He shook his head to try to dispel the giddy feeling, but it only helped a little.

Once he'd climbed those steps, the maze started. Long hallways that led into more long hallways, and they looked so much alike that it was a challenge for Sherlock to spot the differences and keep track of where he'd been. He instead counted his steps one by one and recorded in his brain each time he went left or right if he needed to backtrack, which was often.

Wrong turn after wrong turn, but Sherlock didn't become frustrated like others might; he loved the mental challenge.

But as he marked each hallway in his mind, he realized that these halls were familiar. They were the halls in the Tardis, though older and dustier. He'd spent so much time just wandering the halls, exploring each room. The Doctor hadn't denied him access to any room, not even the one where he kept odds and ends from his past companions (he hadn't told him they were mementos of his old companions, he'd deduced it).

However, there were some doors that wouldn't open for him, no matter how hard he pushed and pulled, no matter how hard he picked the lock. At first he thought it was the Tardis' way of getting back at him for insulting her on that first day. But then he realized that the Doctor had probably asked her to, to keep him out of certain rooms. He'd considered asking the Doctor about it, but had decided against it. He'd let the Doctor keep the secrets behind those doors, because he had secrets of his own he had to protect.

These were the halls of the Tardis, but how could that be? He was underground in a tomb. Or was he? Maybe the catacombs had led to the Tardis monument. Perhaps River Song was buried there. Oh, how he wished there were windows, so he could look out and see for himself.

Right, left. Left, Right. Right, right, left left. Right, left, left, left, right, left right. It was almost dizzying, but he could almost sense his goal getting closer and closer. The vertigo had left, now it was just him and the rush of a puzzle.

He didn't know how long it took, the time had flown by, but eventually he reached a very large door without a handle. He pushed on it with all his strength, but it wouldn't budge.

Just when he had been about to give up and turn around, he noticed writing on the wall. Circular writing. Gallifreyan.

Three days after the pirate case, the Doctor had introduced Sherlock to his library. It wasn't the biggest library in the universe, but it came pretty darn close. Sherlock couldn't believe his eyes; there was so much knowledge, so much he could learn. And since the Tardis translated nearly everything, he needn't worry if a book was written in an alien language.

But not all of it was written. He discovered bottles holding spoken language. He had uncorked one and words rose into the air, words he could see and hear and even touch. He'd been careful to not let too much out, but he'd learned Gallifreyan that way. It hadn't required any effort on his part; the words just seemed to meld with his native tongue naturally. He wasn't exactly fluent, but he knew it well enough to read the words on the wall.

_Here lies the Doctor: the man who slew more than anyone in history, who saved more lives than anyone in history. _

_None may enter his tomb, save those entrusted with the secret of his given name._

_Here lies the Doctor: The god who wanted to be human._

"Oh. Not River Song's grave. His," said Sherlock to himself. That realization led to another; he didn't know how he knew it, but he realized that what he was standing in wasn't a monument to the Tardis, it was _the_ Tardis.

At first he didn't understand, but the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. The Doctor was a time traveler, an ageless god, but not immortal. He would have to die somehow, someday.

"That means my grave is out there, too."

The thought of himself lying dead somewhere in the future didn't disturb him like it would have anyone else. Death was part of life; undeniable, unbeatable. Avoidable for a time, but never inescapable. It was the one mystery that could never be solved. He didn't want to die anytime soon, but the idea didn't scare him.

Sherlock wondered why on earth the Doctor would want to be human. Humans were so limited, most of them were idiots. Wouldn't it be better to be a god, to be respected for your intelligence and power? He certainly thought so. The Doctor was so strange.

Now, when the Doctor had shown him the library, he'd told him he could read any book he wanted, except one: _The History of the Time War. _

Sherlock had of course protested. "You just banned the coolest book in the whole library."

The Doctor had replied solemnly, "There is nothing cool about that book. This library contains at least one copy of every book ever written, and some of them are the original documents. Well, it has the ones I like, I get rid of the duds. You can read all of them, but not that one. If you read it, there will be consequences."

Sherlock had weighed his options to decide if he would respect the Doctor's wishes or not. That book must contain great secrets, and the Doctor's greatest secret is his name, and so his name must be written in there somewhere. In the end, Sherlock decided not to read the book, but to instead deduce the Doctor's name.

He'd learned Gallifreyan from the bottles, and from there had read many Gallifreyan and Time Lord books and scrolls. It was a good thing too, because the Tardis didn't translate Gallifreyan.

He learned all about Gallifrey's history and customs, and he'd read how young Gallifreyans became Time Lords and Time Ladies. All he lacked was the Time War, but he resisted the urge to read the book so as not to cheat.

After learning the language and reading the books, he felt sure he knew his name. He'd made sure not to tell the Doctor. He didn't know how he would react if he found out he knew the language, or if he knew he had deduced his name, but just in case he kept it to himself.

It didn't seem like such a big deal to him. What was so important about it? Sure, it was strange, but what do you expect from an alien name? Why was it so important to him to keep it a secret, he wondered.

Softly, in case anyone was listening, he whispered the name. As he spoke it, he knew he might be incorrect. He didn't know what he would do in that case, but it didn't matter. The doors swung open on their own, and Sherlock entered inside.

His eyes widened and his mouth hung open slightly when he saw what was inside. It looked like the console room of the Doctor's Tardis, but vastly different. Wild ivy grew on the walls, like nature was in the process of taking over. Instead of the time rotor and console, there was a bright tangle of shining white energy tendrils, swirling and writhing in a column.

Sherlock walked closer to the tendrils, unsure of what to make of them. He was tempted to touch them, to see what they felt like, but something told him it was a bad idea. He took a step back from the tendrils, and saw something behind them. A skeleton.

It was the skeleton of a man. He was fully dressed, with his hands clasped on his chest. The thing that really stood out to him was that it was a man lying here, and not a child.

"He'll have at least one more regeneration. He won't die a child. I'm sure he'll be happy about that," Sherlock mused.

He felt a strange feeling in his chest, one he wasn't really familiar with. What was it? Sadness? He didn't think so. Depression? Nope.

He looked in his mind palace for something to go on, because he didn't know what to do about this feeling. He had catalogued all the emotions he'd seen on other people's faces to be used to read them. He didn't really understand why people felt the way they did, or how to help them, and he most certainly didn't know what to do when he was the one dealing with them.

After checking his mind palace, the conclusion he came to was that he was grieving. Grieving his only friend's eventual death. Vaguely he wondered how he'd died, or if he'd been alone. But what did that matter? No matter the circumstances, the outcome wouldn't change.

He eyed the skull. He'd always been interested in the human body; how it worked, what made it tick, how it reacted when introduced to different chemicals. So of course he was curious about the body of a Time Lord. It looked exactly like a human skull, but were there differences beneath the surface? He wanted to study it, to understand it.

Now, Sherlock tended to be rather impatient and impulsive, but even he could see that what he was about to do was wrong on so many levels. Still though, he just couldn't resist. He took the skull in his hands and looked at it more closely. He couldn't leave it here, not in this awful tomb in this dark, wretched graveyard. So he took off his backpack and gently put the skull inside, and then zipped it back up.

Sherlock justified it by saying that he wanted to study it, to learn more about Time Lords. But in reality (and he would never admit it) it was the only way he knew to cope with these new, unfamiliar feelings. It was the only course of action that seemed to alleviate the grief. The Doctor was the first person to see any value in him, the first to be proud to call him friend. It was annoying when he laid down the law, but for the most part he let Sherlock be. He didn't force him to eat or sleep (though when enough days passed without either one, Sherlock would find food and pillows lying in random places). He wasn't afraid to be himself; he tried to act more grown up to compensate for his youthful appearance, but he wasn't afraid to act like a kid and encouraged Sherlock to do the same, instead of acting like an adult like he so often did. He didn't tell him what to do or try to control his life. He never judged him and his weird habits; he was content to just take him on adventures and have fun.

And so the thought that one day he would lose his only friend upset Sherlock in more ways than he realized. He'd never had a friend before, and so he didn't know how to say goodbye. He hated the very thought that the Doctor would die someday, even if that day wouldn't come for a very long time. He couldn't bear the thought of leaving the Tardis and going back to real life where no one cared about him. It didn't even matter to him anymore that none of this made sense, because for the first time in his life, he was truly happy. But this tomb told him that it would all end one day.

Sherlock was just a child, no matter how grownup he appeared to be at times. And so even with such a brilliant mind as his, he didn't always make the best choices. He took the skull, and then fled back out the door. As he ran, he heard the doors close again with a loud thud.

He had to get out of there quickly, before the Doctor discovered him there. He didn't know what conclusions he'd come to, but he couldn't risk him finding out the truth. He'd never forgive him if he ever found out what he'd done.

He ran back through the corridors, retracing each step in his mind. It wasn't long before he found and descended the staircase that led back to the dirt and stone catacombs.

He found the pod and scrambled back up on top of it, ignoring his swollen wrist. He climbed out of the hole and got as far away from the pod and the giant Tardis as possible.

He slowed down when he could no longer see River Song's headstone. He had to catch his breath after all that running. There was always so much running on these adventures.

He leaned against a large headstone to rest, and as he did the Tardis suddenly materialized in front of him. He jumped as the door opened and the Doctor stepped out.

"Hidey-ho! Had fun, Sher-" His mouth formed into an O shape when he saw where he was. "This wasn't where you were supposed to land."

"Where was I supposed to land?" asked Sherlock, trying to hide his guilt under a blank expression.

"There's a planet right by this one with the biggest and fastest roller coaster in the universe. I thought you'd end up there and you could have some fun for a bit while you waited for me, but I see that didn't really work out."

"Not really, no. But what is the name of this planet?" asked Sherlock.

"Trenzalore." By the way he looked, Sherlock wondered if he knew his grave was here. What would that be like, to know where your grave was, to be able to see and touch it.

"How did you find me here?" asked Sherlock.

"The key I gave you. I recently installed a tracking device in it so I can find you. It's also slightly psychic, like the psychic paper, so you can call me. If you need me, if you think about me, I'll be able to find you."

"Did you do this for your other companions?"

"No. But I already told you, I won't tell your mother you died in my care. You're too important, I'm keeping you safe.

"We should be going," said the Doctor as he stepped back into the Tardis. "There's nothing to see here, nothing at all."

"Okay," said Sherlock as he followed him into the Tardis.

The Doctor noticed his wrist. "Ouch. Did that happen in the crash?"

"It's all right. It doesn't hurt so much as before."

"Don't be a hero. Just say it hurts," said the Doctor as he took off down a corridor. He called out over his shoulder, "I'll be right back with some medical supplies."

He returned a moment later and had Sherlock sit in the swing that he usually sat in to repair the Tardis. Tenderly he took Sherlock's wrist and examined it.

"It's cracked all the way through. It'll have to be adjusted." He pointed over Sherlock's shoulder and shouted, "Oh my God, what is Mycroft doing on my ship!?"

There was no way Mycroft could possibly be on the ship, but it took him off guard and he looked anyway. When he turned his head, the Doctor harshly jerked his wrist with both hands to reset it. Sherlock screamed in agony, and tears leaked from his eyes. It was worse than actually breaking it.

"Sorry," said the Doctor as he wrapped a bandage around it.

To distract himself from the blinding pain, Sherlock tried to make conversation. "I didn't think you were this kind of doctor."

"I have many hobbies," he replied with a shrug.

Sherlock couldn't think of anything else to talk about. All he could do was worry that the Doctor might look in his backpack, or somehow sense that his own skull was hidden on the ship.

"Are you hiding something from me?" asked the Doctor.

"No, why would I?"

"You have an almost perfect poker face, but I know the look in your eyes. I used to see it all the time in my own kid's eyes. It's fear of being caught when you know you're in trouble."

"You had children?" asked Sherlock in an attempt to distract him.

"Once, a long time ago, but we're not talking about them. We're talking about you."

"I hate it when you go all parent-mode on me. Is that why you do it, because I remind you of one of your children?"

"No, you're my friend. I do it because you remind me of myself. You need someone to look after you, to make sure you don't go too far and keep you out of trouble. You don't realize it, but you've been doing the same for me. You live in darkness, but you have a good heart. I live in the light, but there is darkness in me that always threatens to overtake me. You and I need people in our lives to bring out the light and keep us out of trouble. Later in life you'll meet people who will do a far better job, but for now you'll have to settle for me."

"What do you mean, I'll meet people like that?"

"That's not important right now. But what is important is what you're keeping from me."

"You keep plenty of secrets," Sherlock pointed out.

"Only to protect you. Does your secret protect me?"

"Yes and no. I guess it's more to protect me."

"Please, feel free to divulge. I won't stop badgering you until you do."

Sherlock was cornered. The Doctor meant what he said, he would not give up until he got the truth. So Sherlock decided to divulge another secret, the lesser of two evils, the one he assumed would get him into far less trouble.

"I know your name."

The Doctor's eyes widened. "Did you read the Time War book? I specifically said-"

"No, I didn't touch it. I figured out your name by using the bottles and reading Gallifreyan texts, and I used what I know about you. Your name is-"

The Doctor clamped a hand over his mouth. "Listen very carefully, Sherlock. I can take away your memories of my name, make it so that you never remember that you ever knew it. But I won't, on the condition that you promise to never speak it."

"Why is it so important? It's just a word."

"It was once just a word, but not anymore. Allow me to explain."

He finished bandaging his hand and wrist and then helped him into a sling. He then left for a moment and came back with a notebook and a pencil. He hid the notebook from Sherlock and drew something, and then held it up to show him.

"This is Old High Gallifreyan. But what does it look like to you?"

"The insides of several clocks."

"Exactly. Time Lords literally wrote with time. The words possessed the power to raise empires or destroy gods. Names became very powerful; the more the Time Lord did, the greater his name became.

"After all I've done in my life, the impact I've made and the scars I've left behind, my name has become the most powerful word of all. Thrown around willy-nilly, the consequences could become catastrophic."

"You're name is your timeline," mused Sherlock. "So saying it reveals everything you've ever done."

"Yes, there's that too," he admitted gravely. "But now do you understand? Can you promise you won't ever say it?"

"I promise." Technically he'd already broken it, but that was a minor detail. And it wasn't like he had much choice; it was either promise or have his memory of the word erased. It was an easy decision.

Sherlock looked at the circles. These words hadn't been used in the books he'd read, and he couldn't make them out.

"Is this your name?" he asked.

"No. This says, "Want to get some pie?"

Sherlock hadn't eaten in nearly a week, and so he wouldn't mind a meal. "Sure," he replied.

"Great," said the Doctor, becoming more animated. He took off the fedora he always wore and put it on Sherlock's head. "There's this shop on earth that has the best pie you will ever eat. They mix up their flavors in such weird ways, you'd think it'd be gross but it's actually delicious. You have to try the chocolate-blueberry, it's to die for."

The Doctor transported the Tardis to the shop, all the while talking about the different pies. His enthusiasm was contagious, and Sherlock felt his spirits lift.

But as they exited the Tardis and made for the shop, Sherlock wondered if he should feel guilty for deceiving his friend.


	15. Poison and Snowflakes

"Sherlock, the Tuila is headed your way!"

"I noticed that!"

"Have you got the perfume?"

"Yes, I've got it!"

Sherlock and the Doctor were in a tower that was higher than any sky scraper on earth, and made entirely of stained glass. It was one of the top ten wonders of the universe, the Doctor had said. But the problem with making a tower out of glass was that it was extremely fragile, and a monster had gotten inside that threatened to collapse the entire structure right on their heads.

The planet they were on was called Corazon, and the monster, called a Tuila, didn't belong on it. The planet had a warm, tropical climate all year long, while Tuila's thrived in freezing temperatures.

The Doctor explained to Sherlock that Tuila babies are adorable and sweet-smelling creatures and so they are often taken as pets from their home planet. But when they grow up, they change drastically and their owners abandon them and run screaming for the hills. That was how this one had ended up here; someone had thought the princess of the land would like the loveable little creature, not knowing what it would become.

The Tuila had injured many people but so far hadn't killed anyone. It smashed everything it came into contact with and was destroying everything. The princess' soldiers wanted to kill it, but the Doctor insisted they try to catch it and take it back to its home planet. And so they were now running back and forth on a wild goose chase trying to catch the thing before it killed anyone or collapsed the great and mighty glass tower.

The beast was the size of a man, but it was all skin and bone. Its skin was shiny red and it had long, stringy black hair obscuring most of its face. It walked on all fours like a dog, but its face looked like a cross between a man and a bear, with the horns of a ram, the teeth of a shark, and the tail of a crocodile, with poisonous spines running down its back to the end of its tail.

The Doctor had been leading the Tuila away from Sherlock long enough for him to borrow some perfume from the princess, who just wanted the horrid thing out of her tower and didn't care how it was done.

Now the Tuila was on his tail, it would catch up to him soon. It snarled as it drew nearer. If it caught him, it would eat him in seconds and move on to the next tasty morsel, which would be the Doctor.

Sherlock reached the end of the hallway he'd been running down and there were no doors to escape through; he was cornered. The beast bared its teeth, preparing to sink them into his flesh, and roared so loudly that Sherlock had to cover his ears.

"If this thing eats me, you stay away from my funeral!" shouted Sherlock as he backed as far against the wall as he could. Even as it was about to rip him to shreds, he still couldn't help but admire how cool it was.

"Open the bottle!" shouted the Doctor as he tried to keep up. "Open the bottle and hold it up in the air so he can smell it."

Sherlock did as he was told, opening the bottle and holding it up in the air. The monster sniffed the flowery scent and stopped snarling. Sherlock was astonished to watch such a horrid creature be calmed by something as simple as perfume.

The Doctor ran up and put his arms around the Tuila's neck and patted it on the back, like they were good friends. He stroked its back and said gently, "There, there, it's okay now, sweetheart. Don't be scared, we're here to help you. You really need to learn to control that temper of yours, just look at all the property damage you caused. That's not very good, is it? I'll take you back to your home in my Tardis, and you stay there, all right? No running off."

The beast slumped to the floor, as if asleep.

The Doctor and Sherlock stood against the wall. They both smiled in relief and triumph and high-fived each other.

"Good work, Sherlock, told you we make a good team. We're almost good enough to give the Winchester boys a run for their money."

"Who are the Winchesters?" asked Sherlock. "Some of your alien friends?"

"Oh no, they're very humany-wumany. And friend is probably the wrong word for it, although I can't really think of a right word for it. We have a complicated relationship, especially with that angel. You know, the apocalypse was a bit less stressful than I thought it would be."

Sherlock gave him a strange look. "Do you just lie awake at night coming up with the weirdest things to say?"

The Doctor grinned. "It comes naturally, dearie."

Sherlock wanted to get off the topic of the Winchesters and their pet angel and so he changed it back to the beast. "How did you know the perfume would calm it?"

"It's lavender, it can calm most anything down. Tuila's usually aren't so wild, and they're surprisingly easy to reason with."

Without any warning whatsoever, the Tuila's eyes shot open and it lashed out with its tail, striking the two in the chest with its poisonous spines. It let out a loud roar and went to do more terrorizing.

"Emphasis on the word usually," said the Doctor.

The princess' soldiers rushed in. The people on this planet had bodies shaped like humans, but their skin looked like it was made of the same glass as the princess' tower. They quickly and efficiently slayed the monster with their swords. They'd made an agreement that if the Doctor and Sherlock couldn't take care of the beast, they would.

"Get back to the Tardis," groaned the Doctor. "I can already feel the effects of the poison kicking in. For the next several hours, we're poison buddies."

"Lovely," replied Sherlock as they left the castle.

Sherlock didn't feel anything yet, except stinging where the spines had hit him. The Doctor tried to walk, but stumbled and nearly fell down. Sherlock caught him and helped him back to the Tardis. By the time he had unlocked the door and gotten him inside, he was already looking pale and sweaty.

"Where should I take you? Do you have your own bedroom?"

"Of course I do, it's right down the hall. Just close your eyes and spin around in a circle until you get dizzy and you're there."

"All right," said Sherlock. While supporting the Doctor, he managed with some difficulty to spin around in circles until he became wobbly. He opened his eyes and the room spun, and he felt more nauseous than he had before. The Doctor looked positively green, but they found his room.

Sherlock's room was any little boy's dream room. After the pirate case, the Doctor had dropped him off at Stonehenge to try to deduce why it was made while he designed and decorated his room. He had insisted he didn't care what his room looked like, but the Doctor had been too excited to listen. Sherlock hadn't been able to figure it out, but came up with several good theories. When the Doctor finally showed him his room, he couldn't believe his eyes.

The room was full to bursting with toys. RC cars, action men, rubber balls, any toy you could imagine was there. There had been a mechanical train set, but they'd blown that up two days later. Sherlock's parents had always discouraged him from acting childish and he'd never had more than one toy, so suddenly being surrounded by them was mind-blowing.

There was also an ice cream machine, a basketball goal, and a bed perfect for bouncing with pillows perfect for pillow fights. And since it was Sherlock, he'd included a big chemistry set that had every chemical he knew of and many that we're alien; it was far better than the one he'd gotten for his birthday. He'd spent hours on end experimenting with each chemical, causing numerous explosions in the process. The Doctor had gone crazy in there, but it was amazing.

So he was surprised to see that the Doctor's room was nothing like that at all. It was completely bare, except for a hammock hanging from the ceiling. Every sound echoed in the hollow space.

He helped the Doctor into the hammock, wondering just what was in store for them.

"Not much of a room you have here," commented Sherlock.

"I hardly ever use it," he replied hoarsely. "Bring me some water, would you?"

Sherlock went to the Tardis kitchen to get him a glass of water. On his way back, he started to feel woozy, and his vision blurred around the edges. The poison must finally be kicking in.

He brought the Doctor his water. He was shaking so much that Sherlock had to help him drink it. He could only take a few sips. Sherlock put a hand to his head; his temperature seemed normal. He put a hand to his own head and felt his own temperature beginning to rise.

"Why is the poison affecting you so much more than me? We both got the same amount, but you're shaking like an old woman and I'm just now starting to feel odd."

"Your bedside manner is so wonderful," commented the Doctor as he pinched the bridge of his nose in discomfort. "The Tuila toxin is much more potent in beings with two hearts. You'll feel like you have a bad case of the flu, but you should be fine. I, on the other hand, will have a more difficult time."

"Will you die?"

"It's a possibility."

"But you'll regenerate. Probably into an infant, at the rate you seem to be going."

"Don't tempt fate," he said, looking horrified at the idea. "And regeneration might or might not work. It all depends on the quantity and the potency of the poison, and other variables. In other words, regeneration is a definite maybe."

"You should go to a hospital."

"No!" cried the Doctor. "No hospitals, I'm never going to a hospital ever again."

"But if you're dying-"

"I'm afraid that if I go in they'll never let me back out."

Sherlock wondered why the bravest man he knew would be so paranoid about hospitals. "Why wouldn't they let you back out? They would treat the poison and then we can get back on our way to somewhere new. Why are you so afraid, anyway?"

The Doctor just shook his head, leaving Sherlock to try to figure out why he was acting this way.

"If we're not going to a hospital, then you must have anti-venom, some kind of cure for this, right?"

"There's nothing that will cure Tuila poison; just like the common cold the best you can do is treat the symptoms and hope for the best."

"And what are the symptoms I should be looking for?" asked Sherlock.

"Headache, fever, stomach cramps, nausea, vomiting, dizziness, blurred vision, and convulsions. Though there is room for variations. I've heard of people's skin permanently changing color or growing extra heads, though I think that's only if you're allergic."

"I checked your temperature, it seems normal."

"No, it's normal for humans, burning for me. Time Lords run a much cooler temperature."

Sherlock felt a migraine coming on, and his stomach was beginning to feel queasy. His throat tickled and he had a coughing fit.

"You should get to bed, sleep this off," murmured the Doctor.

He'd barely got the last word out before he leaned over the side of the hammock, and Sherlock moved out of the way just in time as he puked all over the floor. He continued to throw up everything in him until there was nothing left and his body was wracked by dry heaves, which sounded painful enough to make Sherlock feel bad for him.

Sherlock went to find a mop and broom, all the while puzzling over what the hell he should be doing. He had no idea how to take care of a person, or how to comfort them. It would have been bad enough if the Doctor were a human, but he was dealing with an alien with an anatomy that he knew little to nothing about.

He mopped up the sick from the floor and then checked on the Doctor. His eyes were bloodshot and half-open. His breathing was shallow and he was shivering violently. He wondered if Time Lords used medicine and if he should get him any, but he wouldn't know where to find it, if there was any.

He went to his bedroom and brought the Doctor his own pillow and blanket. He gently lifted his head and slid the pillow underneath it and covered him with the blanket. He would need to keep him hydrated, but beyond that, he was at a loss as to what to do.

An idea came to him then. He went to find the room where the Doctor kept all kinds of weird odds and ends. It seemed silly, until you needed something unusual and it could be found in there.

To anyone else it would look like a junkyard, with things like rubber bands, bobby pins, nails, screws, random pieces of machinery and so much more. Rows and rows of seemingly useless objects lying unorganized on shelves and in boxes. But to someone with a creative and inventive mind, it was a goldmine.

As he searched through all the piles of odds and ends, his skin began to sting. It started in his hands and was easily tolerated at first, but it quickly spread over the rest of his body. It felt like he was being stung all over by angry bees; he gritted his teeth as he tried to ignore it. This was a symptom the Doctor had neglected to mention. At least he wasn't growing extra heads.

Sherlock found a plastic bag, rubber tubing, and a needle. He filled the bag with water and hung it from one of the hammock ropes. It was a hassle with his injured wrist, but he managed to do it one-handed. He connected the tubing to it so the water flowed through and stuck the needle on at the end. He inserted the needle in the Doctor's inner elbow, and the bag dripped water steadily, keeping the Doctor from becoming dehydrated. He was rather proud of himself for his makeshift IV.

His head began to spin, and thinking straight became more of a challenge. Red spots burst before his eyes and his stomach was cramping, and so he decided he would go lie down in his own bed for a while. But on his way there, as he was passing the console, he felt the Tardis shake. It knocked him off balance and he fell to the floor. It upset his already nauseous stomach and he vomited on the floor. He felt sure the Tardis hadn't actually shaken and it was just another symptom, until he looked up and saw two figures standing before him.

They looked fuzzy and so he couldn't make out any details, but they appeared to be children, like him. His pulse thundered in his ears, so loudly that he almost couldn't make out what they were saying.

"Where did you come from?" he heard a girl's voice say. "And just look at the mess you made!"

"I think something's wrong with him. He's white as a sheet," said a boy's voice.

"And who are you supposed to be, Sparky?" she asked.

Sherlock felt awful; his entire body ached and his throat felt dry as cotton. He had a splitting headache and he was shivering with cold even as he was sweating from his fever. He didn't feel like answering their questions; in his sickly state it didn't even occur to him to ask them what the hell they were doing on the Tardis or how they'd gotten in.

"Let's get him to a bed," said the boy. "You can question him later."

"Oh, all right. Come on, then, let's take him to the guest room," she said as they both put an arm around him and helped him to a bed.

"He's pretty weird looking, don't you think?" said the girl. That was the last thing Sherlock heard before slipping away into unconsciousness.

* * *

When Sherlock woke up, he felt like he'd been hit by a truck. He forced himself to sit up and groggily took note of his surroundings.

He was in a room that looked like a hotel room. There was a desk with a lamp on it and a mini fridge, and there were two double beds. He was lying on one, while the two children sat on the other thumb-wrestling. The girl had chestnut brown curls and was wearing a little blue dress. The boy had unruly sandy blonde hair and was wearing blue jeans and a Looney-Tunes t-shirt.

The girl pinned down the boy's thumb and let out a victory shout. They both then noticed that their guest was watching.

"Oh good, you're awake finally," said the girl. "See Ham, I told you he wasn't dead, he just looks like a zombie. Now can we go sledding?"

"Maybe we should check on him first, make sure he doesn't need anything," replied Ham.

"You made me wait three hours on him, I'm not waiting any longer," said the girl as she exited the room.

"Don't mind Briar," said Ham as he walked over to check on him. "She's nicer than she seems. How are you feeling?"

"Lousy," Sherlock moaned.

He eyed his cast. "How'd you break your wrist?"

"Crashed into a planet. Not nearly as fun as it sounds."

"Blimey, it must hurt. What's your name, by the way?"

"What is this, twenty questions? Are you always this nosy, or am I just special?"

The boy flushed scarlet. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to pry. I'm not like Briar, I can't read you like a book. I won't ask any more questions."

Sherlock felt a slight twinge of guilt for snapping at him. "My name is Sherlock."

"Oh, that's odd."

"I know it's a funny name," said Sherlock irritably.

"No, it's not that. It's… oh, never mind. But I think Briar has nicknamed you 'Sparky.'"

"Sparky? Why?"

"She comes up with nicknames for pretty much everyone, to get on their nerves. My mum didn't give me the name 'Ham' you know."

"She sounds like a real charmer," remarked Sherlock snidely.

"Just wait until you get to know her, she's really neat." He turned to leave. "I'll go get you something to eat."

"I don't need anything."

"Judging by the mess I had to clean up, you're running on empty. I'll be right back."

Ham returned about five minutes later with a bowl of soup. "I made this a while back and kept it warm so it'd be ready for you when you woke up. It's chicken noodle."

"Thank you," said Sherlock. He sat up and accepted the soup and ate a few spoonfuls, which seemed to satisfy the boy.

He gave the bowl back and Ham returned it to the kitchen. When he came back, Sherlock asked, "How did you and Briar get on the Tardis? Those doors are supposed to be impenetrable."

"We were wondering the same thing about you. You just appeared out of nowhere right at our feet. We were waiting on the Doctor to get back; he was going to take us sledding but he hasn't got back yet."

"Hold on, how do you know the Doctor?"

"How do you know him?"

"I've been traveling with him for weeks now."

"Weeks?" said Ham incredulously. "We only get to go places with him three times a year: my birthday, Briar's birthday, and Christmas. How'd you get so lucky?"

"I don't know," said Sherlock with a shrug.

Just then, Briar appeared back in the room. She must have been hanging outside the door listening, because she said, "Are you the Doctor's special favorite or something, Sparky?"

"I don't know," Sherlock repeated. "I mean, we never discussed how long I'd stay. We just haven't stopped, I suppose."

"Do your parents know you're with him?" asked Ham.

"No. Yours?"

They both shook their heads.

"I think my godfather suspects something, though," said Ham. "We try to be careful, but the Tardis is awfully loud, and we don't always arrive home in the same clothes we left in."

"How long have you been doing this?" asked Sherlock.

"Two years, since we were six," said Briar." He came to us while we were in our secret hideout and told us we needed to come with him, because there was a man after us. I guess the police handled it or something, and he took us back. For some reason though, he won't let my friend join us, even though it would make it so much more fun."

"Why won't he let him come?" asked Sherlock.

"Because he doesn't like him, and neither do I," replied Ham. "He's weird."

"So am I, but you still hang out with me," said Briar, causing Ham to blush scarlet.

"I call him Moony," continued on Briar.

"Why Moony?" asked Sherlock.

"Because it suits him. Like Sparky suits you."

"I call him by his real name," said Ham darkly. "Moriarty."

"Enough about him, back to the Doctor," said Sherlock. "Where was he going to? Where are we?"

"We're on Tarim, a tiny planet that's perpetually in winter. The Doctor brought us the top of the highest mountain so we could go sledding. He says this planet has the best snow in the whole universe, perfect for sledding."

"I still don't think it's a good idea," said Ham.

"Quit your worrying, I know what I'm doing. So Sparky, will you be joining us?"

"He's sick," Ham pointed out.

"Actually, I am feeling better," said Sherlock. He wasn't about to pass up on sledding down the highest mountain in the world, especially when not doing so would make him look like a coward. "But first I need to check on the Doctor. He's very ill."

"But the Doctor was just fine when he left," said Ham.

"He was very not fine when I left him," replied Sherlock.

"Are you saying there are two Doctors?" asked Ham.

"That can't be," said Briar matter-of-factly.

"Oh believe me, it's very possible," said Sherlock, thinking of the skull hiding just a few rooms away from its living body. "I need to get back to him, he may be dying."

"You don't sound very worried, just slightly concerned," Briar noted.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. This girl was becoming very annoying. He got out of bed, but kept a hand on it to maintain his balance. "You know, that cat of yours must feel very unloved."

"What are you talking about?" she asked as she put her hands on her hips.

"There are cat hairs on your shoes and socks, but nowhere else. You or someone close to you owns a cat that vies for your attention but is rejected. If you liked it you would pick it up and hold it, and you'd have cat hairs on your dress, as well."

A dark smirk spread across Briar's face. She accepted his challenge and returned his blow with one of her own. "You think you're good at deduction, do you? Well, Mama's boy, I can see you haven't been home in a while. You told us already, but it's obvious in the way you're dressed. You wear nice clothes but they're wrinkled and inside out, and your socks don't match. Mummy dresses you but when on your own you can't dress yourself."

"You said you only go on adventures on your birthday and Christmas. It's Christmas back home right now, isn't it?"

"And how did you work that out?"

"Easy, you both smell like pine needles and peppermint."

Briar eyed his broken wrist. "You hurt yourself in a crash, but something else happened that you're not letting on. You've done something you know is wrong, but you're keeping it secret."

"You're so sure?"

"You're poker face slips whenever you look at the cast. You're guilty of something bad, I just have to find out what."

"My wrist is broken, but how's your ankle?"

"My ankle?" said Briar.

"The bottom of your right shoe is more worn than your left, you've been favoring it due to a past injury. It causes a slight limp that doesn't prevent you from running and no one would notice it unless they knew to look for it, it just hurts enough to remind you that it's there."

"Did you enjoy your little pirate adventure?"

"How would you know that? It was weeks ago."

"Your skin is tanned, and your right hand is callused. You were sword-fighting, and I'm sure your opponent was quite formidable."

"Tell me Briar, have you suffered a head injury recently?"

"No, why?"

"Your pupils are slightly different sizes. This could be a sign of brain damage or a brain tumor, but most likely you just have Anisocoria, a much more common condition. I wouldn't quite rule out brain damage, though."

"You can't stand being treated like a child even though you are one, and so you don't play with toys or video games. You spend all your time reading and experimenting and you purposefully use big words so you sound smarter than you are. It's only a matter of time before you start shoving newspaper in your shoes so you look taller."

"Your mother is sweet and kind, and your father tries to be strict and stern and cold but is generally bad at it. You have no siblings. You came with the Doctor looking for adventure."

"You have one brother and your parents are separated. You came with the Doctor looking for an escape."

"You don't like milk!"

"You like bees!"

"You had peanut butter and chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast this morning!"

"You play the violin!"

"You play the piano!"

"You're supposed to be at boarding school!"

"You went to Australia on holiday three months ago!"

"You've been playing with a chemistry set!

"You recently lost your favorite book!

"You play the Choking Game!"

"All right, all right, stop it! Both of you are proper geniuses, stop showing off before your massive egos tear a hole in the fabric of the universe," said Ham exasperatedly. He'd been standing there, silently staring in awe at the two of them. He'd never met anyone who could take on Briar like that and hold their own. He would never understand how they could see so much, while he and the rest of the world saw so little.

Sherlock and Briar both glared at each other angrily; this was far from over. Neither would admit defeat.

To distract them from arguing again, Ham said, "Let's go sled down the mountain down to that little village at the bottom. Just let me finish my last will and testament first."

Sherlock and Briar reluctantly ended their staring match and they all went to the console room, where they already had their sleds and coats ready. Ham volunteered to go find Sherlock a sled and a coat, as well. Sherlock knew sledding down the highest mountain in the world while his body was trying to recover from poison probably wasn't the best idea, but when his body protested he rarely listened.

Ham brought him a green sled and coat and they went outside. They lined up their sleds and raced down the mountain. It was all in good fun, but they never could have foreseen what awaited them at the bottom.

_To Be Continued…_


	16. Every Day

When they reached the bottom (their hair all over the place and their faces wind-whipped) they could see a little town not far off in the distance. It was nighttime, but the city glowed with bright and colorful lights.

"Great, now we have to climb all the way back up," said Sherlock. He'd known full well the consequences of sledding down a snowy mountain at night, but he hadn't cared. Now he did.

"I knew we should have waited for the Doctor," said Ham as he began to shiver.

"We'll do it tomorrow, we'd freeze to death if we did it tonight. Let's stay at that town for the night and then go back to the Tardis in the morning," said Briar.

"But what if the Doctor comes back and we're not there?' Won't he be worried?" asked Ham.

"He'll worry for a bit and then remember who he's dealing with. He was probably expecting this, anyway," said Briar.

They hiked to the little town. The mountain they'd come from seemed to be the only mountain in the area. The rest of the landscape as far as they could see was just flatlands blanketed in snow with a few trees here and there. The town seemed to be the only one around, as well.

This town was bigger and more well off than the Natiri village, Sherlock noted. It looked more like London, except it was cleaner and brighter. There were large, Victorian-style houses and each one was decorated in Christmas lights. Church bells rang in the distance. Every street corner had a Christmas tree, and there were carolers all about singing merrily. Every man, woman, and child they passed had a happy smile on their face.

"I've never seen people this happy, Christmas or not," Sherlock remarked.

"It's really weird, isn't it?" said Briar.

"Quit being paranoid," said Ham. "There's nothing wrong with being happy, Christmas or not. Now, why don't we go to that café and warm up."

"They'll expect us to buy something to eat, and we don't have any money," Briar pointed out.

"In the time it'll take for a waiter to come take our orders, we can warm up a bit," replied Sherlock.

They went inside the café, which was brimming with people. They found a table by a roaring fireplace and sat down. The fire seemed to leech the cold from their fingers.

A woman with auburn hair pulled up in a ponytail came to take their orders. "Hi, I'm Ivy. How may I serve you kids?"

"We don't have any money," said Briar.

"Hmm, that's no good. But you know what? Since it's Christmas Eve, I'll cut you a break. How about I bring you the special, that sound good?"

"That sounds wonderful, thank you," said Ham.

"Did the Doctor tell you anything about the people on this planet?" asked Sherlock once Ivy had left. "They all look human."

"That's because they _are_ human, genius," replied Briar sarcastically. "We're in the very far future, when humans have begun branching out to other planets. This is a human colony we're in."

"I apologize for not knowing every planet in the universe," replied Sherlock snarkily. "Please, tell me about the other planets you've studied."

Briar looked embarrassed; she shot him a cold look. Sherlock smirked and said, "It's nice having the Doctor as a tour guide. Just being around him can make anyone seem more intelligent than they are."

Briar opened her mouth to shoot back a retort, but Ham covered her mouth with his hand and said, "I don't want to get thrown out of a restaurant on another planet, it happens often enough on earth with you, Briar. Let's just pretend we're all civilized folk and enjoy Christmas."

"We already celebrated Christmas just a few hours ago," said Briar.

"And now we get second Christmas. I know you don't believe in Father Christmas, but pretend he's watching us and behave."

Briar still looked like she wanted nothing more than to punch Sherlock in the face, but took a deep breath and calmed herself.

"Where was the Doctor going when he left?" asked Sherlock.

"He didn't say," replied Ham. "He said he could feel the world shaking beneath his feet when we stepped out, even though we couldn't feel anything."

"He said this planet never has earthquakes," Briar continued on for him. "So he went out to investigate. We wanted to go with him, but he said it would probably be nothing and we'd be bored to death. He said he'd come right back and then we'd go sledding."

"Aren't you concerned something's happened if he hasn't come back yet?"

"He's the Doctor, he knows what he's doing," replied Briar. "But if he's not back by this time tomorrow, I'll find him and drag his bum back to the Tardis. Shouldn't be too difficult, a bloke like the Doctor doesn't easily blend in with the crowd."

Ivy returned with their plates then. The special was roast turkey, mashed potatoes, green beans, rolls, and ice cream sundaes for dessert.

"Wow, thanks Ivy!" said Ham as he dug into his food.

Ivy smiled sweetly and said, "Don't mention it, just enjoy!"

Sherlock and Briar didn't touch their plates. They waited for Ham to finish his while silently shooting daggers at each other with their eyes.

Ivy returned sometime later to take away their dishes. She looked confused when she saw Sherlock and Briar's untouched plates, but didn't say anything about it.

"So, where are your parents?" she asked.

Sherlock and the Doctor had come up with a foolproof lie to give when asked that question, but before he could say it Ham ruined everything by opening his mouth.

"We're here alone."

"You're orphans? I'm so sorry. Do you have a place to stay tonight?"

"We'll be fine," said Sherlock as he flashed Ham a nasty look. Ham ducked his eyes, but didn't look apologetic.

"Oh, you're homeless too, how dreadful. If you don't have a place to stay, then you kids come home with me."

"That's not necessary," said Briar.

"Nonsense, I won't take no for an answer. No one would ever dare hurt children on Christmas Eve, but I'm not taking any chances. My shift ends in fifteen minutes, you kids stay here and I'll come get you and take you to my place."

Ivy turned and walked off before any more arguments could be made.

"What is wrong with that woman?" said Sherlock.

"She's probably been drinking," replied Briar.

"Why does kindness freak you guys out so much?" asked Ham. "Maybe she's trying to do the right thing, or maybe she's alone and wants a little company for the holidays. Or maybe she just wants to make sure we have a good Christmas. You're both so cynical; why can't you just accept kindness and spread it around?"

"Sounds like a virus," said Briar, which actually made Sherlock's lip turn up in a half smile.

Ham threw his hands in the air exasperatedly and gave up.

Ivy came to get them not long after and drove them in her car to her apartment.

"It's quite small, but I think we can make it work for one night," she said as they walked through the door. "Briar can sleep on the couch, while you boys can have the floor. I'll bring out some blankets you can lie on to make it more comfy."

Briar took the couch while Sherlock and Ham set out blankets on the floor. There was no more conversation that night, which was good, because Sherlock's head was spinning with questions.

What was he doing here? He should still be outside the Queen's tower, not on some ice planet. How had he gotten here? There had to be an explanation, one that would no doubt make perfect sense to the Doctor but probably very little to him.

Who were these kids, and how could they be traveling with the Doctor while he was? He could only assume that they were some of his past companions. When the Doctor had shown him his mind, he's gotten a glimpse of his old companions. Nothing specific, but he knew he'd had many. Perhaps they'd traveled with the Doctor when he was younger but looked older (this thought gave Sherlock a headache).

How was Briar so good at deductions? He'd never had to deal with competition before because he was the only genius he knew (besides Mycroft of course, but he was an idiot and didn't count). She was brilliant, and as much as he hated to admit it, he had to respect her abilities. He of course knew that there were other smart people in the world, but he'd been entertaining the idea that he was the best of them all. But for the first time he was forced to question that belief. It infuriated and intrigued him at the same time.

How was the Doctor doing? Was he doing better, or was the poison still ravaging his body? Sherlock could still feel echoes of the aches he'd felt from the poison, and so the Doctor was probably still suffering, wherever he was. How long could he do without him? Was the IV still dripping fluid, or was it even still hanging? The Doctor could die at any time, and he wouldn't know it. Sherlock wasn't a worrier, but that didn't stop the thoughts from coming.

And where was the Doctor Briar and Ham were traveling with? Without him, Sherlock could never get back to his own time. He knew the Doctor loved to talk and make friends and was easily distracted, but he should be back by now, shouldn't he? Maybe something had gone wrong, but what? Everything in this town was perfect (according to normal people standards). Nothing screamed danger, it was all peaceful. But maybe the peace was the danger cry.

Needless to say, Sherlock didn't get any sleep that night.

* * *

The next morning, when Sherlock opened his eyes after a futile attempt at sleep, he noticed Briar was lying on the couch playing with what looked like a phone. He'd never seen a phone like that before. It was so tiny, and she was typing on it.

"What are you doing?" he asked. "Is that a phone?"

She turned to look at him incredulously. "Haven't you ever seen a cellphone before? Where are you from, the stone age?"

Sherlock ignored the jab and asked, "Are you sending a message? Without having to talk to the person?"

"It's called texting. What have you got against talking?"

"Talking on the phone is annoying. You can't deduce them if you can't see them."

"You can't deduce someone by texting them either, Einstein."

"But at least then I don't subconsciously make the effort, genius."

Briar cracked a smile. "I prefer texting over talking any day, too. But I'm not texting, I'm writing down what's been happening so far. I write our adventures on my phone and then when I get home I copy them in my diary. I'd be so lost without my phone."

This made Sherlock question is earlier assumption that these two children were from the Doctor's past. If they came before him, how could they have technology he'd never even heard of? Then again, she could have gotten it from the future, they were in the future right now. After all, he could probably have the Doctor get him anything he wanted from any time period (so long as it wasn't illegal or didn't change the course of history, Sherlock had tried a few times already to alter it and the Doctor always said no).

Sherlock and Briar didn't talk anymore after that. They were still cross with each other. It wasn't until they heard an alarm clock go off that Briar broke the silence.

"Ivy will be going to work soon. I suppose I should wake Hammy so he can get a bite to eat before we have to leave."

She picked up a pillow and threw it at his face. "Wake up, loser. Go get something to eat before we're cast back out on the streets like strays."

Ham stirred, but it took several tries before he groggily pulled himself up.

"Happy second Christmas," he yawned. "Go ahead and open your gifts. They're invisible, just so you know."

He picked himself up and went to the kitchen. He found some leftover scones and took a couple and smothered them in grape jam and then rejoined them.

"I haven't heard Ivy get up, I think I'll go check on her," said Sherlock.

He opened the door to the room he'd seen her go in the night before after she'd helped them get settled. The first thing he saw was an empty, unmade bed.

"Ivy?" he called out. "Ivy, don't you have to go to work?"

He checked the bathroom and all over the small apartment, but she was nowhere to be found.

"She isn't here," he reported to them.

"Maybe she already left for work," suggested Ham.

"And set her alarm to go off when she's not here?" Briar scoffed.

"Maybe she woke up before it went off and left for work," said Ham.

"Her keys are still here," said Sherlock as he picked them off the key ring.

"Maybe she decided to walk?" said Ham sheepishly.

"Let's go back to the café, maybe she has a coworker that will know something," said Briar.

The three children left the house to go back to the café. For the moment, there was no animosity between Sherlock and Briar; they were both too excited about the prospect of a case.

When they reached the café, they went up to the cashier.

"May I help you?" he asked.

"Did Ivy come to work today?" asked Sherlock.

The man thought hard for a moment. "No, she didn't come in today, as a matter of fact."

"Does she have a boyfriend she might be with?" asked Briar. "Or a family member she might have gone to visit?"

"No, she's been alone for quite some time. I can't think where she would have gone, especially on Christmas Eve."

It took a moment for any of them to speak again.

"Um, don't you mean Christmas day?" asked Ham.

Now it was the cashier's turn to look confused. "No, Christmas Eve."

"Yesterday was Christmas Eve, today is Christmas," Sherlock corrected.

The man smiled. "Oh, I see. You kids are so excited for it to be Christmas that you've skipped ahead of the rest of us. Nope, sorry to disappoint you, but you'll have to wait one more day for it to be Christmas."

"Let's get out of here," said Ham.

They left the café. A man passed by and Sherlock asked him, "What day is it today?"

"Christmas Eve, of course."

He asked a lady passing by, "Is today Christmas?"

"That's tomorrow, silly boy."

He yelled at a group of carolers singing nearby, "Today is Christmas!"

"No it isn't!" they sang back at him.

Sherlock was about to yell in frustration when Briar grabbed his arm. "They're not going to listen. They really think it's Christmas Eve."

"We've got to find the Doctor," said Ham. "There's something not right going on in this town."

Out of the blue, a blonde woman came up to them and said, "There you kids are! I've been looking all over for you!"

"You've got the wrong kids, lady," said Sherlock. "Back to the Tardis," he whispered so only they could hear.

"I've been pulling my hair out with worry, why did you run away?"

"Get your eyes checked," said Briar. They turned away from her to go back to the mountain with the Tardis, but the woman moved to block their way.

"I won't have you running off again, not on Christmas _day_," she said, putting a lot of emphasis on the word "day."

That got their attention. "Who are you?" asked Sherlock.

"Come with me," was all she said, and they did.

She took them to a school, which of course was closed for the Christmas season, and so was deserted. They went around back to a playground and stood by a swing set. The woman didn't waste any time and cut right to the chase.

"You three aren't from here, are you? Neither am I. If we were, we'd be just like the rest of sheep in this town."

"Do you know what's happening?" asked Briar.

"I can't be sure yet. All I know is that someone is using very powerful perception filters to make the people believe it's Christmas Eve every day."

"Like that movie, _Groundhog Day_," said Ham.

Blondie gave him a funny look; she clearly hadn't seen that movie. Sherlock hadn't either; he only watched telly and movies to point out the mistakes, and so he hadn't seen very many. Ham looked away, his ears tinged red.

"As I was saying, the perception filters are so strong they're actually hypnotizing the people. They were probably like us at first and noticed something strange was going on, but over time, the exposure to the filters hypnotized them. Meanwhile, people are being taken, more and more go missing every night, and no one notices. Or at least, they don't notice enough to do anything about it."

"There was a woman who was nice to us, Ivy was her name," said Ham. "She disappeared."

Blondie nodded. "I don't know for what purpose, but the people are being taken and used for something. They're like sheep headed for the slaughter, they have no idea they're being hunted because of the filters. I'm not sure yet where the filters are, they're obviously disguised. Our only options are to find the filters and destroy them to wake up the town, or leave before they start affecting us too. I can already feel it starting to work on me. I can't stay much longer."

"What can we do?" asked Sherlock.

"I need to clarify something," she said. "I'm only talking to you because you're the only ones who aren't affected by the filters. I need you to search everywhere and find the filters, and then we'll destroy them. It should be easy enough to smoke out the ones behind all this once we've destroyed their cover. You'll step out and won't do any more when that time comes."

Ham moved to stand between Sherlock and Briar and covered both their mouths with his hands before either could protest. It wouldn't have helped anyway.

"Search everywhere, and I'll do the same. Have you got a phone?" asked Blondie.

"I do," said Briar.

"Here's my number," said Blondie as she wrote it down on a scrap of paper. She handed it to Briar and said, "If you make any progress, call me."

Blondie turned around and walked away.

"All right, here's what we'll do," said Sherlock. "We'll search every house and building and see what they have in common. They each must have one item that's the same that links them, and once we find it we can destroy them all."

"Let's start at Ivy's house. See what she's got and then move on somewhere else and find the common element," said Briar. "But we'll have to be careful. If they find out we're on to them, they'll take us and we won't be able to wake up the town. Who knows what they'd do to us."

Sherlock and Briar were very excited. Ham was too, but also quite nervous.

"And to think, the Doctor promised nothing dangerous this time," said Ham, shaking his head.


	17. Sacrifice

They arrived back at Ivy's flat and opened the door. They each set out and scoped out a certain part. Sherlock investigated the living room, while Briar took charge of the bedroom and Ham the kitchen.

"The filters are probably disguised as something Christmas-y," Ham called from the kitchen. "Maybe it's the Christmas tree. Everybody would have one."

"That's the problem," Sherlock called back from the living room as he looked at the tree. Ivy was too normal. Nothing in her apartment stood out, nothing screamed "Look at me, I'm alien technology in disguise!" It was just like anyone else's flat, and the fact that it was decorated for Christmas made it worse. Ham was likely correct, but how would they know what to look for? They didn't even know what a perception filter was supposed to look like.

Sherlock thought back to when the Doctor had taken him to Hogwarts. He'd put a perception filter in his ear. He hadn't gotten a good look at it, but he knew it was small and metallic. That didn't tell him much, but it was a start.

He took note of everything inside her flat and recorded it in a temporary room of his mind palace. He would compare it with whatever they found in the next house they searched.

"Let's move on," said Sherlock. "Let's find another empty house and search it to see if anything stands out."

"Maybe we should just try breaking everything open and seeing if we find anything robotic inside," suggested Ham. "I know it would be horrible to even consider it since she'd dead, but it would save time."

"Let's save that as a last resort," said Briar.

They left Ivy's flat and went down to the street. They walked a couple blocks until they came to a small bookstore that was open, but completely empty.

"This seems like a good place to check out next," said Briar.

The sign said it was open and the door was unlocked, but there were no lights on inside. Sherlock split up with the others; he went to the back while they searched the front. As he did, he observed a Christmas tree and other Christmas decorations. Once again, nothing stood out.

Sherlock heard the church bells ring again. A light snow was falling outside. No one outside noticed them searching on the inside.

He looked through the office and supply room in the back, but still found nothing suspicious. As he was about to check the restrooms just to be thorough, he heard a loud cry, a crash, and a thud. He ran back to the door to the front but froze when he looked out the glass window.

Three huge metal men stood in the shop, and before them stood tiny Ham, looking up at them. Even from this distance, Sherlock could see his hands shaking, but he didn't run.

"I'm the only one! Take me, I'm the only one who can see through your perception filters! Take me!"

"You will be brought back to our base," said one of the robots in a mechanical monotone. He lifted Ham and carried him over his shoulder. Ham didn't even try to fight back.

They turned and walked out the door. He felt the urge to go after them, to save Ham, to do _something_, but rational thinking held him back. What could he possibly do against metal men?

Once they were gone, he opened the door and ran out to the store front. He looked out the window and watched the robots carry Ham kicking and yelling down the street, and no one noticed. No one turned their heads or stopped to stare, they continued on with their business as usual. If Sherlock didn't know better, he'd think the people of this town were cruel and completely uncaring, but that wasn't the case. They saw nothing, they heard nothing. Those perception filters must be very powerful.

He suddenly realized that Briar was nowhere to be found. Had she run away and hidden while Ham was kidnapped? But then he heard a groan from behind the clerk's desk.

He ran over and found Briar lying on the floor, her hands clutching her head in pain.

"Sparky?" she asked, appearing slightly dazed. "Where's Ham? Is he okay?"

"Robots came in and took him. They must be the ones who set up the filters," replied Sherlock evenly.

Briar's expression became hard and stony. She took a long, steadying breath and pulled herself to her feet. "They must somehow know we're on to them. Ham must have seen them before they got here. He hit me with a large encyclopedia and dragged me behind the desk. He didn't knock me out, but I was so out of it I didn't hear them come in. Were they really robots?"

"I saw them with my own eyes. I don't know what they want, but it can't be anything good."

Briar didn't reply. There was a broom by the door; she grabbed it and began smashing things with it.

"What are you doing?" asked Sherlock.

"To hell with respecting other people's belongings. We are finding the filters and we are finding them _now_."

Sherlock just watched as she destroyed every decoration and pretty much anything and everything else in her way. Nothing breakable was safe. She broke the windows and knocked over the Christmas tree. She knocked the books off the shelf, and didn't stop until she broke the broom handle in half. She threw away the broom and dropped to her knees and began tearing the pages out of books as though each one had offended her personally.

Tears began to leak through the mask and Sherlock didn't know what to do. He didn't particularly like Briar, but he felt like he should do something to comfort her. Ham must have meant a lot to her. Funny though, she hadn't acted like he was very important, not until now.

"Are you all right?" he finally asked.

Briar aggressively threw a book out the window and grabbed another one to rip out its pages. "I'm fine. Leave me alone."

What Sherlock did next was completely unexpected and surprised even him. Especially him. He sat down next to Briar and put a hand on her shoulder in an attempt to comfort her. He quickly removed it, though.

"Your name isn't really Briar, is it?"

"You deduced that?"

"You use nicknames for almost everyone, it would only make sense that you do the same for yourself."

"Do you know what my real name is?"

"Not quite sure yet."

"I'm not telling, if that's what you want. The Doctor's got his nickname and I've got mine. And you have yours, Sparky."

There was a long pause. "You seem so upset, but you didn't really seem to care for him all that much," said Sherlock.

Briar turned her head to try to hide the tears. "He was my best friend, and now he's probably dead. Why is he so stupid? Why did he have to be a hero? I hate him so much."

"I'm not sure why he did it, to be honest," said Sherlock. "But I think he did it because he didn't want you to get hurt."

"Exactly. Because he's an idiot," Briar sighed heavily. "He could have had any friend he wanted at school. He gets bullied all the time for hanging out with the freaky girl. It doesn't have to be that way, but he's too ignorant to realize it. He's so stupid he doesn't realize that if he just ditched me, he could be happy."

"That's why you don't treat him like a friend," said Sherlock, some of the pieces about them coming together. "You're afraid if you make him feel like he's worth something, he'll wise up and find other friends."

"Besides the Doctor, he's the only friend I've got," said Briar quietly. "I'm so selfish, I'm an awful person really, but it's the only way I can keep him. I'd be alone without him."

"You've got one more friend than I do. The Doctor's the only friend I've ever had."

"That doesn't surprise me," said Briar. "Why do you think the Doctor chose us? I mean, there are a lot of people out there, people better than us. He could have had anyone, but he chose us, and we're jerks."

"Who knows how his mind works," replied Sherlock. "I've wondered that too. I mean, I'm bloody brilliant, but the Doctor seems like he'd be better suited to someone more… sensitive."

"I know what you mean. Ham is plenty sensitive, though. I've never understood how someone so quiet and timid can be so brave when he needs to be. It's like he flips a switch."

She finally turned to face Sherlock. The tears were gone, but her eyes were still red. "You know, I think we could almost be friends, Sparky."

"I think the universe would explode if that ever happened," replied Sherlock with a crooked grin.

Briar lips twitched up in a small smile. "I think you're right. But at least now you have more than one."

Sherlock didn't reply to that. In the distance, the church bell tolled again. Briar's eyes suddenly lit up, she'd thought of something.

"Sparky, what if there are no filters in people's houses? What if there's only one, but it's huge and covers the whole town."

Sherlock caught on quickly. "The bell tower? You think the bell is a perception filter?"

"Think about it. We don't know exactly how the filters work, no one's explained it to us properly. It could possibly emit some kind of sound that alters perception, or it could be the vibration. However it works, wouldn't it be easier to make a great big one instead of sneaking into every building and planting smaller ones?"

"And that bell strikes every hour, on the hour. With each hour that passes, we become even more affected. And who would suspect a bell, anyway? It's brilliant!" said Sherlock.

"Let's get moving, there's no time to waste. Ham might have a chance!"

They ran out of the shop through the crowd. The church wasn't hard to find; it was the tallest building in the town, even without the grand bell tower.

They burst through the doors. There were only a few people inside, but they didn't seem to notice as the two children dashed down the aisle.

_They don't notice anything too out of the ordinary,_ thought Sherlock to himself. _They see nothing violent or aggressive or scary, only happiness and peace._

They went down a long hall and found a long set of stairs that must lead to the bell. Running faster than they ever had in their lives, they made their way up the stairs to the top of the tower, where they found the bell. It was bigger than a car.

"Now what do we do?" asked Sherlock. "How do you destroy a bell?"

"Wait a minute," said Briar. She turned and ran back down the stairs. A few minutes later she came back with an axe.

"Where'd you find that?" asked Sherlock. He didn't think it was normal for churches to carry weapons.

"Stole it from a bloke outside cutting firewood," replied Briar, panting from the exertion of all that running. She hefted the heavy blade over her shoulder. "Now, to destroy this thing."

Anyone else would have been worried that maybe they were wrong about the bell. They'd second guess themselves and change their minds. But not Sherlock. He trusted his gut and he never second guessed himself.

Briar swung the axe at the rope holding up the bell. The rope was thick and strong, and Briar could barely lift the axe, let alone swing it, but she managed to get the job done. Sherlock offered to take over at one point, but she told him to shut up and kept working. After hitting the rope nearly twenty times, it finally snapped and the bell went crashing down. The sound was deafening and it made Sherlock and Briar cover their ears and grit their teeth.

As soon as the bell hit the floor, it broke into pieces, and the effect was instantaneous. Like a wave crashing over them, the world suddenly completely changed. Sherlock took the axe from Briar and they ran back down the stairs and found that they were no longer standing in a church, but in a place that looked more like a science lab. And there were robot men surrounding them.

"The perception filter has been destroyed," said one of them in that dead monotone. "What is our next course of action?"

Sherlock heard screams outside. If a robot lab had been disguised as a church, he didn't even want to know what the rest of the town really was.

"We shall collect all remaining humans and upgrade them, then we will have enough soldiers to invade earth," said another.

Sherlock decided to act. He swung the axe at the closest robot. He hit it square in the chest and it made a loud bang, but it didn't do anything. It didn't even leave a scratch.

"Delete the infant humans!" said another as it took aim with its blaster at the children. Sherlock dropped the axe and pushed Briar out of the way just as it fired a red laser. The blast grazed her shoulder and burned it, but she was alive.

"Run!" he yelled as he grabbed her hand and pulled her away.

The door was blocked by robots, and so they had to find another way out. They ran past the door that had led to the bell tower and down a long hall. They stopped at the first one and when they saw what was inside, they both cried out in horror.

A woman was inside in some kind of machine, screaming in obvious pain. A metal claw cut open her skull and removed her brain, and placed in a metal suit. The woman stopped screaming, and the suit came to life.

"They're cyborgs!" whispered Briar.

"Keep moving!" said Sherlock.

Neither of them noticed that he was still holding her hand; they were both too terrified and focused on making it out alive. More cyborgs were coming and firing at them. Every room they passed had more people being turned into robots.

"Do you think they did this to Ham?" asked Briar, her voice bordering on hysteria. "Do you think he's one of them, now?"

"Most likely, yes." Briar didn't respond to that; she knew he was speaking truth.

At the end of the hall, they reached a dark room that appeared to be empty. They rushed inside just as a cyborg shot right where they were standing. Sherlock locked the door, and for the moment, they were safe. But not for long.

"Sherlock, I don't think we're alone in here," said Briar.

He could hear two more people breathing, and he had no way of knowing yet if they were friend or foe.

_To be continued…_


	18. A Leak in the Vortex

Sherlock felt along the walls of the little room, feeling for a light switch. Finally he found one and flicked it on.

Sitting before them, wrapped in chains and connected to a machine, pieces of metal attached to his face and head, was the Doctor.

"Doctor!" Briar cried as she ran over to him. She took one of his hands in hers as he turned his eyes to look at her.

It was then that Sherlock noticed another person. He looked and saw Ham standing in a corner of the room, his eyes empty and blank. In his ear was a blinking metal device. He didn't move, he was barely breathing, and he showed no signs awareness, at all.

Briar noticed him too and left the Doctor's side to go to him. "Ham!" she cried, expecting him to look at her, to be happy to see her. She smiled in relief as she embraced him. "I thought they'd turned you into one of them. But you're still human."

When Ham didn't respond, her smile faded and she knew something was wrong. "Ham? Ham! Look at me!" She shook him by the shoulders and yelled at him, but nothing worked, he gave no reaction.

She saw the device in his ear and was about to rip it out, when the Doctor spoke. "If you do that, you'll kill him."

"What have they done to him?" asked Briar, stubbornly holding back the tears that were fighting to fall.

"He's not completely gone, but he will be if we can't stop the Cybermen."

"Cybermen. So that's what they're called?" asked Briar.

"Yes, and they're nearly unstoppable. I have a plan to fix all this, but you must promise to keep me connected to this machine."

"What? Why?" asked Briar, confused.

"I'm the only thing keeping the Cybermen from taking over completely. I chained myself here so they can't stop me. But if you release me, we'll have no chance against them."

"All right, I won't interfere. But what can Sparky and I do to help?"

The Doctor froze for a moment, and his face transformed. It went from somewhat calm to anxious.

"Briar, listen to me. He's lying to you."

"Who's lying to me?"

"The Cyberman inside my head!" he yelled. "The Cybermen are using me like a battery. My Time Lord DNA gives them more power than they've ever had before, and if you don't release me soon, they'll take over!"

The Doctor switched back. "Don't listen to him, Briar! He's trying to trick you!"

"Which is the right one?" asked Briar as she tugged at her hair. "Sparky, what do you think?"

Sherlock wasn't really listening. At that moment, he was only slightly concerned about the Doctor's imprisonment, that Ham was a robot zombie, and that they had a life or death decision to make. What concerned him most was the Doctor's appearance.

He was a child. He was that little boy with the dark red curls that he called friend.

This wasn't a past version of the Doctor, like he'd been hoping. This was a future version, with two new companions.

So where was his future self? Why wasn't he here, as well? Was something going to happen to him?

He hadn't planned out how long he intended to stay with the Doctor, but he knew he wouldn't be stopping anytime soon.

So why was he no longer the Doctor's companion?

Briar slapped him across the face, bringing him out of his reverie. "Wake up! We have to figure out which Doctor is the real one!"

"The one that wants to be released, of course," replied Sherlock quietly. Deep down, he knew Briar would have been able to figure it out on her own, if she hadn't been so worried about Ham. Normally she was detached, but right now she had let her emotional guard down and so she was more vulnerable. He almost pitied her.

"How can you be so sure?" asked Briar.

"He's wrong, Briar!" shouted the Doctor.

"When the Cyberman takes over, the body stiffens and sits completely straight, stiff like a board. When the Doctor is in charge, he slouches. The Doctor normally slouches slightly. Also, the Doctor's eyes dilate when he takes over, from fear. The Cyberman feels no fear and so the pupils contract. That's how I know the one that wants to be released is the true Doctor."

"Good enough for me," said Briar. She disconnected all the wires connecting the Doctor to the machine. The machine sparked and shut down.

"Now to get these chains off," said Briar.

"No! The Cyberman is still in my head, these chains are the only protection you have against me. Disconnecting me from the machine has weakened the Cybermen, but they are still powerful enough to upgrade you and everyone else in this town."

The Doctor stiffened and tossed his head back. The Cyberman had taken hold.

"The Cybermen will rise again. All humans will be upgraded, and the rest will be deleted. You cannot stop us."

The Cyberman began to wriggle his body, and the chains shook. Briar caught on a second before he did and they both grabbed him and tackled him to the floor. The Doctor was an escape artist, and the Cyberman was using that knowledge to try to escape.

The Cyberman growled and tried to escape, but chained up and pinned under two children was making it difficult.

"What's the plan, Sparky?" asked Briar as they struggled to keep him under control.

"Working on it." He was drawing a blank. He remembered what the Doctor had said before, _'You try taking on Daleks and Cybermen_.' He hadn't the slightest idea what a Dalek was, but he knew that this was the Doctor's territory, not his. But the Doctor was out of commission. Kicking and snarling violently, he looked like a rabid animal. He knew it wasn't really the Doctor, but it was unnerving nonetheless.

He kept waiting for the Doctor to come back to himself, but he was showing no signs of doing so. Had the Cyberman won? And if he had, did that mean the Doctor's mind was destroyed for good? He pushed away those concerns, he had to focus.

Just then, the door was shot open. He was sure it was the Cybermen, but he was relieved to see Blondie standing there, a large gun in hand. She bolted back the damaged door and ran over to the machine.

"We haven't got much time," she said, panting. "The people have all evacuated, the ones that are left, anyway. I'm going to rewire their power core and blow them all up, and we'll only have five minutes to get out. Do you understand?"

"Yes, just do it," said Sherlock, saving his questions for later.

She set to work on the machine with a little tool that looked a lot like the Doctor's sonic screwdriver. Lights had been blinking on and off, but now they glowed bright red. Smoke began seeping out of the machine, and she stood up.

"Ten minutes, let's go!" She shooed away Sherlock and Briar and picked up the Doctor and threw him over her shoulder. He was still struggling viciously and wildly to break free, but she ignored him and ran.

Briar went to Ham and tried to pick him up.

"Let me," said Sherlock. Ham wasn't a heavy boy, but neither of them were very strong and so it was difficult, but Sherlock managed to pick him up and carry him in his arms as they ran after Blondie.

They passed by many Cybermen. They tried to shoot them, but the power failure had weakened them and so they were able to just barely make it past them.

They burst through the "church" doors and kept running outside. Sherlock was tiring quickly, but he didn't dare stop.

"I can see why the people were so eager to leave," commented Briar.

The town was unrecognizable from the way they'd last seen it. It was dull and grey, no colors or lights. The houses looked like they were ready to crumble, and dirt and filth lined every street they passed. It looked dead, as though it had been abandoned centuries ago. Nothing could live here. Sherlock and the others had been more affected by the filters than he thought.

They passed legions of Cybermen. How many people had been upgraded? How long had this been going on? They chased after them, but instead of firing laser blasts, their fingers were alive with electricity.

Just as they reached the town border, the entire town exploded, the force of it knocking them flat on the ground. Sherlock turned his head and saw the town in utter ruin. Any building that hadn't been destroyed by the blast was on fire and wouldn't stand long. Smoke stung his eyes and made him choke. He pulled Ham away from the smoke and heat until they were far enough away.

"Look out!" shouted Briar as she shoved Sherlock and Ham to the ground, out of the way of a flaming chunk of building the size of a refrigerator that landed exactly where Sherlock had been standing just a second before.

Sherlock looked at Briar in awe. "You… you saved my life."

"I didn't really have much choice," she replied with a shrug, and he wondered what exactly she meant by that.

"What's going on?" asked Ham blearily, just beginning to wake up. "Did Briar set the town on fire?"

"Not this time," replied Sherlock as he helped him to stand on his own two feet. He was shaky, but otherwise he seemed okay. Briar came over and slapped him, nearly knocking him back on the ground.

"Don't you ever do anything that stupid again, do you hear me? God, you're such an idiot."

But then she threw her arms around his neck and held onto him tightly, as though he might disappear again if she let go. "I'm glad you're okay."

Ham just smiled and hugged her back. Despite all that had happened, in her arms he looked like the happiest boy in the world. It was then that Sherlock realized that maybe Ham was smarter than Briar gave him credit for. Maybe he knew he could have other friends, but he chose her, instead. But Briar would never believe that.

"Who is this boy?" asked Blondie.

The Doctor had fallen unconscious and Blondie was kneeling by his side. It didn't last long, though. He opened his eyes and looked up at the woman who had saved him. "Jenny, is that you?"

"How do you know my name?" she asked warily.

"It's me," he replied with an expression of desperate hope. "The Doctor."

"How can it be you?" she asked in disbelief. "You're just a child."

"I regenerated, twice since we last met. It's what Time Lords do when they die. But how are you still alive? I saw you die. You're a Time Lady, but you can't regenerate."

"The Source brought me back. Ever since I've been living my dream: seeing everything, saving planets, rescuing civilizations, defeating monsters, and doing an awful lot of running."

The Doctor smiled. "That's my girl."

"What's going on here?" Sherlock butted in. "You two know each other?"

"He's my dad," said Jenny as she hugged the Doctor.

"This is so weird," said Sherlock as he shook his head.

"You've got that right," chuckled the Doctor as he returned her embrace.

"I'm not expecting anything normal at this point," Jenny replied.

Tears were pouring down the Doctor's face now. "I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry for how I treated you before. I didn't appreciate you until it was too late. I thought I'd never get to hold any of my children ever again."

He was sobbing, but smiling at the same time. Sherlock, great detective that he was, didn't understand it one bit. It didn't help that, even though he knew better, all he was seeing was a young woman and a little boy clutching onto each other as though their lives depended on it. Like brother and sister, maybe. But no one would believe father and daughter, not for a second.

"I don't suppose I could offer you a spot in the Tardis? Travel the stars together?"

"I'm afraid not."

"I wasn't expecting any different." He didn't sound disappointed, just a bit sad.

"But you'll be seeing me again soon. Your adventures are too fun to resist."

Jenny took them to her ship, which was made only for two passengers. She flew each one of them back up the Tardis one by one, until only Sherlock and Briar were left down below.

"Why do you think the people were so easily tricked? Why couldn't they see the massacre happening around them?" asked Sherlock. He had his own theory, but he wanted to hear her opinion.

She took a moment to answer. "Most people aren't like you and me, Sparky. They want happiness and so they don't question it when it comes. These people were given their very own Christmas wonderland. They thought it strange at first, but came to accept it after a while, and loved it. But you and me, we push it away, because we don't expect it to last. We push it all away to keep ourselves safe. We don't want happiness because happiness always ends."

"Briar, if you're a future companion, what happens to me? Why do I stop traveling with the Doctor?"

Briar shrugged her shoulders, her expression almost pitying. "I don't know, Sparky. He never mentions his old companions. He might travel to the past, but he never dwells on his own for very long. Sometimes I forget he ever even had companions before us. I'm sorry."

Time seemed to slow down for Sherlock as he contemplated the gravity of what she'd just said. He wondered if maybe he was going to do something so bad that the Doctor would drop him off and never come back. Or maybe he was going to die, like some of his other companions had. Whatever the reason, it was going to be bad, he was sure. He felt anxiety gnaw at him as he considered the possibilities of how he was going to lose his one and only friend so soon.

_Time can be rewritten._ He'd heard the Doctor say it a time or two, so maybe there was hope for him, after all. Maybe, if he fought hard enough, he could change the future and keep travelling with the Doctor for as long as he wanted. He didn't know the future, so it wasn't going to be easy, but he was determined to change his fate.

Neither of them said anymore until they were both in the Tardis. Jenny took off after that with quick goodbye.

"I need to do a scan, make sure all the Cybermen were killed in the explosion."

"Is the Cyberman in your head gone now, Doctor?" asked Briar.

"Yes, thank goodness. The Cybermen weren't at full power, they were surviving off the power from the power grid. When Jenny destroyed it, it killed them all. If it had gone on much longer though, they wouldn't have needed the power grid and they would have been at top performance."

"Why did they choose this town? What was so special about it?"

"Nothing, absolutely nothing. Nothing, except for the ore underneath. They use it to make their armor. They just decided to upgrade all the people while they were busy mining. They used the filters to hide, and they very nearly succeeded."

"So, they were turning people into robots?" asked Ham.

"Don't be daft, Ham. Of course they weren't turning them into robots. They were turning them into cyborgs."

"How many people were upgraded?" asked Sherlock.

The Doctor sighed; he suddenly looked weary, like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. "More than half the town. Only a fraction remain, and they're more confused than you are. The settlement here used to be one of the largest and most successful, but now it's been reduced to nothing."

"But at least the Cybermen are dead," said Sherlock.

"But so are many people, Sherlock."

"Yes, but we defeated the Cybermen. Isn't that what counts?"

"From a broad perspective, yes. From a more narrow one, no. But it's time I got you back home."

"How did I get here, Doctor? Did you bring me here?"

"Nope. But I think I know what happened. You played with the Tardis controls just a few days ago, right?"

"I wasn't playing with them, I was piloting the ship," said Sherlock defensively. "But yes, it was about a week ago."

"All right then, I see. You must have pushed a wrong button and caused a tear to form in the time vortex. It grew bigger and bigger, until things started to leak through. I was wondering why random items kept popping up, like my glasses and your backpack."

The Doctor reached behind him and held up his backpack. As he handed it to him, Sherlock wondered frantically, _Oh God, did he look through it?_ But if he had, he showed no signs of it. He didn't know about the skull.

"You leaked through to the future, but I can send you back with a bit of finagling. Once you're safe and sound in the past, I'll seal the leak and you won't have to worry about falling down anymore rabbit holes. But make sure you don't mention any of this to past me, the paradoxes it would cause would be quite headache-inducing."

"Okay," said Sherlock. So many questions, but he didn't have time to answer them. He wanted to get back to his own time so he could try to stop thinking about the Cybermen. Plus, he needed to check on the Doctor. With a sinking feeling, he realized the Doctor could be long dead by the time he returned. Maybe, since this Doctor was still here, it meant he would survive. But if there was one thing he'd learned from all this, it was that time could be rewritten. How would history be affected if he let him die?

The Doctor flipped a few switches and twisted knobs. Sherlock didn't feel any different, but the Doctor, Briar and Ham were fading away.

Briar stepped forward and said, "I know who you are!"

"What do you mean?" he asked. She wasn't making sense, of course she knew who he was. They'd spent the last two days together, hadn't they?

She smiled and said, "Until we meet again, Sherlock!"

That was the last thing she said before the three of them vanished completely. He was still in the Tardis, but he was alone.

He rushed back to the Doctor's room and opened the door and gasped in shock when he saw him. He was on the floor, not in his hammock, and he was desperately reaching out a hand for help. Every inch of skin on his body was covered in boils and lesions. His eyes were wide open in abject agony and terror. He was dead; he'd died trying to crawl to the console.

"This is all my fault," said Sherlock, not knowing what to do. He was still calm, but he felt guilty for what he'd caused. "If I'd been here, he might not have died."

"You're telling me!" the Doctor cried out, making Sherlock yelp in shock.

"What? You're not dead?" said Sherlock, completely confused.

"Let it be known that I just outsmarted the most brilliant detective mind that ever lived. One more thing I can cross off my bucket list."

The Doctor stood to his feet and picked up a towel off the floor and used it to wipe the paint off, revealing pale, but healthy, skin underneath.

"What'd you do that for?" Sherlock demanded as the Doctor laughed.

"I have to get my kicks somehow, don't I? And hello! Where were you? I was dying, remember? You should have been making me soup or reading me a story. You make a terrible nursemaid, I'll tell you that. At the very least, you should have been here to get rid of all the people who wandered in here. We forgot to lock the door and so all kinds of odd strangers found their way in and got lost. I'm still not convinced I found them all."

"How'd you get well if you were dying?"

"Well, that IV thing you rigged up helped. And I must not have gotten a high enough dose of the poison, because I really came close to not being alive anymore. So what were you doing in my time of need? Unleashing your deducey-wrath on more unsuspecting court folk? Or have you got a secret lover in the castle? The princess herself, perhaps. I think she fancied you."

Sherlock ignored his question and asked him one of his own. "What happened to your children, Doctor?"

The smile vanished from the Doctor's face. Instead of answering, he walked past Sherlock out the door to the console, where he started fiddling with the controls. Sherlock heard the wheezing sound that meant they'd left the castle, and he wondered where the Doctor had taken them.

"You said you had children. Did they leave? Or did something happen to them?"

"Sherlock, you're not the most sensitive person, but are you intentionally trying to get under my skin?" asked the Doctor, his voice steady but with an undercurrent of rage.

Sherlock refused to be deterred. "Why won't you talk about them? I thought people liked to talk about their loved ones. Did they do something to upset you? Every time I ask you about your past, you ignore me or try to distract me. Why don't you want to remember?"

"Why do you talk of emotions like you understand them? You have no grasp, no concept of what love feels like. You can't ever understand what I've lost, what I've sacrificed. You don't love anything; you're cold and heartless, like the Cybermen!"

Sherlock was stunned. He'd never seen the Doctor lose control like this. This was worse than when he'd been possessed. He'd gone too far, he should never have brought up the subject of his children. He thought he'd been called every name in the book, but never had he been hit with one like that: Cyberman.

Sherlock didn't say anymore. He turned and went to his room, leaving the Doctor to be alone.

The Doctor immediately regretted what he'd said. He didn't mean it, but that didn't change anything. The boy was emotionally challenged, to be sure, but the Doctor could tell that he had a big heart. He just didn't understand it. He was trying to help him see that, but how could Sherlock see it when the Doctor was accusing him of being a machine?

He thought about Jenny, and how he had despised her until it was too late and she died. It reminded him of Sherlock and his mother. Jenny was different from his other children in that he couldn't accept her for a long time. He did accept her before she died, but he felt guilty that he hadn't sooner. He was afraid that Sherlock's mother wouldn't realize what she had until she lost it. He didn't want anyone to feel the regret he faced every day.

After losing his own children, he couldn't bear the thought of having to tell someone else their child was dead. He knew what Sherlock would grow up to be and wanted to help foster that. He hoped that one day his mother would accept him, like he should have accepted Jenny sooner. Neither of Sherlock's parents accepted him and so he strived to be a friend to him, to be there for him until he found someone else to rely on. It was the best he could do, to make it up to Jenny.

He'd never get that time back with her, she was dead and nothing could bring her back.

He wasn't sure whether he should go see Sherlock now, or wait a while and give him space. In the end, he decided to go to him now. He needed to apologize, and he didn't want to be alone.

Sherlock sat on his bed and wrapped his arms around his legs. Was he really like the Cybermen? When people saw him, heard him speak, did they see a boy that was more machine than human? Is that what his mother and father saw every time they looked at him?

Is that what the Doctor saw when he looked at him?

Perhaps that was why the Doctor brought him along with him, to keep him from being like the cyborgs. Maybe he was afraid he would grow up to be a killer, a monster, and was trying to prevent it.

It would make more sense than him actually wanting to be his friend, at any rate.

Sherlock didn't know what he should make of this. He was just being himself, after all. But no one liked him for who he was. They all wanted something different. He could put on a mask to make them happy, but he couldn't live beneath a façade.

He heard a light knock on the door. "May I come in?"

"It's your ship," Sherlock replied.

"It's your room. May I come in?" he repeated.

"If you must."

The Doctor tentatively opened the door, looking very ashamed of himself and no longer angry. "I didn't mean what I said. It was entirely uncalled for and you didn't deserve it."

When Sherlock didn't answer, the Doctor came and sat down beside him on his bed. Sherlock noticed how watery his eyes were, but he didn't mention it.

"You have such a unique mind, Sherlock. Very few compare with what you're capable of. It's because of that that I often forget that you're still just a child, and that you're still learning.

"I don't talk about my children because they're all dead," said the Doctor in a deadpan tone to keep Sherlock from hearing his pain. "But they didn't just die, they all died because of me, because of my actions. I did what no one else could or would do, and I paid dearly for it. I've lost everyone that I loved, and I can't ever have them back. Sometimes I think it would be better if I couldn't remember them at all."

"If I had people like that, I would want to remember them, I think," said Sherlock. "But I won't ever have the chance."

The Doctor smiled a small, sad smile. "I hope one day you know the kind of love I'm talking about, but I also hope you never know the kind of pain I'm talking about."

Sherlock pondered for a moment if he should tell the Doctor that Jenny was alive. But he decided to keep it to himself to avoid the paradox. He'd find out for himself eventually, anyway.

Instead, he asked, "Do you really think I'm like the Cybermen?"

"No! No, no, no, never. You're not cold and heartless, not at all. I've been a lousy friend to you, Sherlock, and I'm sorry. I'm the only one you've got right now, and I hurt you. I let my emotions take over and when I do that I tend to say things I don't mean. I won't let it happen again, I promise."

There was a long pause. Neither knew what to say. Finally, the Doctor asked, "Would you like me to leave, or would you like to go somewhere else now?"

Sherlock didn't want to be alone with his thoughts at the moment. He was tired from his last adventure, but he needed a distraction. Sleep could wait, he needed to do something. But before he spoke, he took into consideration the Doctor's current state. It was obvious he was struggling to keep himself from falling apart, physically and mentally.

"Wouldn't you rather stay here and be alone for a while? I find being alone helps me when I'm feeling bad."

The Doctor shook his head. "That is the last thing I want."

"Okay then. Yeah, I want to go somewhere," said Sherlock. He felt his mood improve a little with the excitement of a new place to visit.

The Doctor perked up a bit as well and hopped off Sherlock's bed and rushed into the console room, with Sherlock right behind him.

"What if I told you there was a planet with completely human people, but they could control the elements? Air, water, earth, and fire. Which element are you?"

"You get to choose which element you control?"

"Well, no. But which would you pick if you had the choice?"

"I suppose, fire," said Sherlock, becoming even more intrigued. "Which would you pick?"

"Oh, air of course. The element of freedom, that's me. Let's go there now. I'll have to be careful though, to avoid that pesky hundred year war. That's the last thing we need right now."

As the Tardis rumbled and shook, a thought suddenly occurred to the Doctor. "Hold on a minute. How did you know what a Cyberman was?"

"You told me once." It was the truth, technically.

"No, I didn't."

"You did, during one of your mad ramblings," said Sherlock, thinking quickly. "You got off on a tangent and mentioned them."

The Doctor looked confused. "I'm old and mad, but surely I'm not senile."

Sherlock changed the subject. "So, tell me more about this world. How are the people able to control the elements?"

As the Doctor explained, Sherlock listened, but only half his brain was paying attention. The other half was still puzzling over the Cyberman matter. The Doctor said he wasn't like a Cyberman, but he couldn't help but doubt that.

And would it really be so terrible to be like them? Not murderous or mechanical of course, but just unfeeling. The Doctor was always in so much pain because he loved too much, while the Cybermen felt nothing and were stronger for it.

_Better to feel nothing, than to be destroyed by emotions_, thought Sherlock to himself.


End file.
